Terrible Things
by IsabelWalker
Summary: The reader is a small-town girl with a troubled past and a thirst for adventure. Sam and Dean are supposed FBI agents who come to her diner. What happens when Y/N finds out they're the same Sam and Dean from the Supernatural books? A whirlwind of hunting, romance, and tragedy await in this series, inspired by Mayday Parade's song, "Terrible Things."
1. Chapter 1

**Dean**

Dean turned off the TV and stretched his arms above his head, groaning. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, which had gone blurry from staring at the screen for so long, and glanced at the clock. It was almost one in the morning.

He climbed the stairs with heavy footfalls, dragging himself up the stairs with the little energy he had left. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in almost thirteen years. The house was quiet and still, causing every one of Dean's movements to bounce and echo off the walls. Crickets chirped their soft melody off in the distance while the cicadas harmonized. The sounds were drowned out only by the occasional whir of a car driving by. Dean had gotten used to such suburban noises by now. He hardly noticed them anymore.

The rustle of blankets and long, low creak of box springs caused Dean to pause in the hallway. He used two fingers to push his son's door open ever so slightly, leaning back to poke his head into the room.

The little boy—though Dean supposed he should stop thinking of Mason as "little" now that he was hitting puberty and shooting up like a weed—laid on his side, facing the window away from the door. This was a dead giveaway. Mason never slept on his side, and he _never_ slept with his back to the door.

"Mason," Dean whispered. "You awake?"

Mason gave a loud snore. He wasn't fooling anybody.

Dean clicked the light on his nightstand on, shaking his head a little when Mason pretended to squint against the light as if he'd been sleeping for hours.

"Dad," he fake-groaned. "What're you doing? I don't have school today."

"Nice try," Dean said dryly. "You're a horrible actor. Why aren't you asleep?"

Mason sat up and shrugged. "Not tired."

"Is it those scary movies you're watching before bed?" Dean asked, and when Mason's eyes widened, he continued, "Yeah, I know how to work Netflix now. Did you know that the 'recently watched' queue updates itself every time you watch something on my account?"

"I—" Mason stuttered, but he didn't have an answer for this.

Dean sighed, not wanting to argue right now. He supposed it was in Mason's blood to seek out the scary and supernatural. "What's up?"

Mason shrugged again, not meeting his father's eyes. He pulled his knees against his chest and traced circles on the mattress.

"Come on, you can tell me. Is it school? Drama with your friends? Teacher troubles?"

"No," Mason said. "It's none of that."

"Then what is it?"

Mason looked up. "Dad, will you tell me about Mom? And I don't mean the non-answers you give me about having her eyes, I mean everything."

Something in Mason's eyes told Dean that he was already expecting a no. He asked his father every year to tell him the story of how they met, and every year Dean said something to the effect of, "It's late and it's a long story. I'll tell you when you're older." Than he'd kiss the top of Mason's head and say, "You have her eyes, you know."

And he did. Dean dad never seen eyes so blue before meeting Y/N. Even Cas' eyes seemed dull next to hers. Dean was convinced that if you looked hard enough, you could see tiny flecks of gold amidst the ocean blue. There were whole galaxies to explore, entire worlds to get lost in. Dean could've stared at those eyes forever and he would've been perfectly content.

Dean looked Mason up and down, chewed on his lip, and frowned. "I guess thirteen is old enough to know the truth."

Mason instantly straightened, grinning broadly. "Really?"

Dean nodded slowly. "I wasn't lying, though. It is a long story."

"I can stay awake."

Dean pulled his legs up onto the bed and sat cross-legged across from his son. "Should I start with the good ol' fashioned, 'once upon a time'?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Y/N**

"Y/N, can you cover for me?" My co-worker, Hadley, gestured to table three. Four little old ladies sat there, knitting and chatting in loud voices.

I sighed, cleaning up the rest of the milkshake my other lazy co-worker, Josh, had spilled. "Sure."

Hadley beamed at me, already lighting up a cigarette even though she wasn't outside yet. "You're the best."

"That's me," I muttered to myself. "Human doormat."

I raced around the diner by myself, taking orders, bringing drinks, repeating the specials half a dozen times to a forgetful old man who could barely hear me. By the time it hit one o'clock, my bun was falling out and strands of hair hung around my face. Smudges of chocolate and mustard decorated my cheeks. The tips of my fingers were covered in pen marks.

The bell on the door jangled, barely heard over the hustle and bustle of the lunch rush, and two men in their twenties slid into a nearby booth.

"Hadley?" I called into the kitchen, but she didn't answer. Her smoke break had lasted an hour and a half at this point, and I wasn't planning on her coming back until a few minutes before her shift was over. How she hadn't been fired by now was beyond me.

I made an annoyed huffing noise and grabbed my pad of paper.

"Welcome to Lucy's Diner," I said to the men in as chipper of a voice as I could manage. I relied on my tip money. It was the only way I could afford the rent. "Can I get y'all something to drink?"

The older of the two, a tall man with messy sandy-colored hair and bright green eyes, looked me up and down, smirking a little, though not unkindly. "Busy day?"

I rolled my eyes. "You have no idea."

"I'll just have a coffee," the other man said. His knees touched the bottom of the table, he was so tall. His hair was thick and long, the color of chocolate. He had a kind face, the sort of face you automatically trusted.

"Okay," I said, scribbling a note on my pad. "And for you?"

The scruffier man with the green eyes rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "I'll have the double bacon cheeseburger, side of fries, vanilla milkshake, and apple pie."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Dessert already?"

"Yeah," he said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. "You can bring it all out at once, too. If it makes it easier."

"What would make it easier is if I had co-workers who weren't idiots."

The man with the long hair chuckled. "I get where you're coming from."

"You have co-workers that goof off, too?" I asked.

He gestured to the scruffy man. "Yeah, Dean here can, uh, get distracted pretty easily."

"But I do step up when I need to," Dean argued. "You'd think it'd be the other way around, me being the older brother. But Sam's always been the responsible one."

"So what do you two do?" I asked conversationally.

Sam said, "FBI" just as Dean said, "Pest control."

"Sorry," I said, sensing some tension between the brothers. Sam glared at Dean, who cleared his throat and stared at a couple sticky spots on the table. "Didn't mean to pry. I'll be back with your food."

Dean muttered a, "Yeah, thanks." I thought I heard the two of them arguing in hushed tones as soon as I'd walked away.

I delivered their food as soon as it was ready, saying nothing except for, "Enjoy." They said nothing back. I tried to keep up with all the tables on my own, wondering if maybe I could persuade my boss for a slight raise next time I her.

I was wiping down the counters at the bar when someone slid into the stool across from me. I blinked up at Dean.

He grinned, green eyes wrinkling at the corners. He radiated pure sunshine. "Hey."

"Hi," I said cautiously. "Did I get your order wrong?"

"No, no," he said quickly. "The pie was delicious, by the way. Homemade?"

"Pre-made freezer packaging," I said dryly. "I guess you don't have very high standards when it comes to pie."

He looked sincerely offended. "Pie isn't a food, it's a lifestyle. Believe me, I have high standards."

"So what is it?" I set the soapy rag aside and leaned across the counter, propping my chin up on my hands. "Come to interrogate me? Or ask about our roach problem?"

Dean cleared his throat again and folded his hands together on top of the counter. He smiled, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes. "About that—"

"It's really okay," I insisted. "It's none of my business."

"No, it's fine. Here's the thing, we're not FBI _or_ pest control. We're kind of private investigators. We just didn't want to blow our cover back there, with people listening in."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh. Makes sense, I guess. Is this investigation anything I should know about? You don't have to give me specifics; I'd just like to know if I'm—safe. If I should worry."

"Well, I'd recommend locking your doors at night, but other than that, you should be good." He met my eyes, and his face softened. "Sammy and I'll take care of it."

"Can I help in any way? I might be able to give you information about whatever it is you're doing."

"Maybe."

He turned to look over his shoulder, green eyes dancing as he scanned the room for anyone who might be listening in. When he turned back to me, our faces were inches apart.

"What do you know about Herman Glass?"

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. "Not much. He lived just down the street from me, but he was kind of a hermit. Didn't he commit suicide a few days ago?"

It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when he was looking at me. All I could think was how a person shouldn't be able to have eyes that green. It wasn't fair.

"That's what the police think," he said, tilting his head a little and pressing his lips together into a thin line, like he was preventing himself from saying anything more. "But the police are often wrong about this stuff."

"Oh, and you know better?" I taunted him, screwing up my face so I was wearing an expression of doubt.

Dean blinked at me and smirked. "As a matter of fact, I do. Why, you don't believe me?"

I shrugged and grabbed the soapy rag so I'd have something to do with my hands. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about the mustard and chocolate spots on my face. "Just a little suspicious, I guess. I've never met a PI before, and you sure don't look like the ones on TV, so . . ."

"Oh, so just 'cause we don't like TV stars you think we're not the real deal?" He sounded offended, but it was a teasing tone of voice. He crossed his arms, raised a single eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement.

I dropped the rag onto the counter from a few inches up so it landed with a _splat_. I mimicked his defensive stance. "I don't know. Can you prove that you're the real deal?"

"Would you like me to get my business cards from the car?"

"Business cards prove nothing," I pointed out. "A fifteen-year-old could become a private investigator if that's all it took."

"Fine." Dean threw his hands up in the air as if he surrendered. "How about I show you a little action later tonight, hmm? Sam and I are going by the police station sometime this evening to ask a few questions. Do you want to come along?"

I pretended to study him carefully, mulling his offer over, though inside I was yelling, _yes, yes, yes!_

"All right," I finally said. "My shift ends at six. You can pick me up at my house at seven."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Seven it is."

I scribbled my address on a napkin and slid it across the counter for him. "You'd better show up. Or else I'll be forced to believe you were never real to begin with."

"Me? Stand you up?" Dean made a _pfft_ noise. "I'd have to be stupid to do that."

I tried to let my hair hide my face, which was burning hot, and pretended to continue to clean an already spotless counter. I felt his smile on me for a long time before he hopped off his stool and returned to the booth with Sam. When I chanced a glance up, I saw that they were whisper-fighting again, this time with wild gestures and glances my way. Either Sam didn't approve of Dean blowing their cover by inviting me along, or there was something else going on that I didn't know about.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dean**

"Sam, it's _fine_ ," Dean tried to reassure his brother, to no avail.

"It's a _girl_ ," Sam hissed, shooting him the dirtiest of looks. "You want to take her on a date, take her to dinner! Don't bring her along on a case. God, Dean, she's not even a hunter."

"How do you know that?" Dean argued, lifting his chin a little with newfound confidence. "Huh? Did you ask her? For all you know, she could have salt and holy water in the trunk of her car."

Sam's face was totally and completely disbelieving, frowning sideways at him. "Dean, I saw her go to her car. All that's in there are books and her cell phone. You think she has weapons in the trunk of her tiny, lime green, VW bug? Does she _look_ like a hunter to you?"

Dean glanced over at the girl—Y/N, according to her nametag—and sighed. Sam was right, she didn't look like anything more than a frazzled waitress with more customers than she could handle by herself. But she didn't just look like a normal girl, either. Here Dean was trying to be undercover, and this total stranger had cast some sort of spell on him. What was he thinking bringing a girl along on a case? Sam was right, he should've just taken her to dinner.

"Let me try and fix this," he muttered, and walked back over to the bar, hands stuffed in his pockets.

She raised her eyebrows at him when he approached. "Back so soon?"

"I can't take you with us," Dean sighed. He avoided meeting her eyes again. That was how he'd fallen under her spell in the first place.

"How come?"

Dean mumbled something about secret PI stuff and Sam not approving. But Y/N would have none of it.

"Unh uh," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Her face was defiant. She was not budging a single inch until he gave in. "You said you'd prove to me that you guys are the real deal. Now's your chance. Are you chickening out 'cause you have something to hide?"

"No," Dean said, probably a little too quickly. "It's just—"

"Just what, exactly?"

Dean's mouth open and closed silently for a few seconds as he struggled to find the right words to say. He finally blurted out, "Do you want to have dinner with me?" Then pressed his lips together before anything more could slip out.

The corners of her mouth twitched, ever so slightly. "Did you just invite me on a second date before even having gone on the first one?"

"What—no!" Dean sputtered nervously. He felt his face heating up, and judging from her triumphant smile, it showed. "No! The investigation is _not_ a date."

"You sure made it sound like one."

Dean attempted a casual, slightly annoyed roll of his eyes, but it didn't feel very convincing, even to him. "How did I make it sound like one?"

"Because _real_ PIs don't invite total strangers out on their investigations."

"I am a real PI!" Dean insisted.

"Okay." Y/N turned her back on him and grabbed a pitcher of icy water, condensation dripping off the bottom. "If you say so. We're still on for seven, right?"

Dean thought Sam was going to hit him when he shuffled back to the booth, eyes on the floor.

"I didn't mean in addition to!" He half-shouted. He rubbed his temples like he had a headache. "You know what, fine. We'll let her see us questioning the police, we'll be using code anyway, and then we'll leave. She'll drive home, then we can do the real stuff."

"Uh, about the driving . . ." Dean trailed off and smiled nervously at Sam, who glared venomously.


	4. Chapter 4

**Y/N**

I didn't know what one normally wore on a PI case/date/outing with total stranger, but I figured I should wear something nice. At least something that wasn't stained with tomato soup.

After some primping and much scowling in the mirror, I took a few seconds to take deep breaths and relax. It was going to be fine. I was going to be fine, he was going to be fine, everything was going to be fine.

I had just enough time to panic about the fact that I was going on a maybe date with a man I'd barely met along with his tall and strong-looking brother on a possible murder case. No big deal. But as I was starting to hyperventilate, I heard the rumble of an old engine crescendo up my street.

I dashed over to the full-length mirror and my bedroom and took one last glance at my reflection. The dress I'd chosen—a cute but casual purple summer dress with a floral print and matching cardigan—was smoothed out, the black leggings I wore with it had no holes in them, and my makeup hadn't smudged anywhere. I pulled on a pair of flats, grabbed my purse, and flung the front door open.

I let out a little, "Oh!" of surprise as almost collided with Dean, his fist poised in a knocking position. He blinked at me, the only part of him that moved. He didn't seem to know what to do or say now that I'd opened the door.

"Do you want me to—" I started awkwardly, gesturing behind me.

"Yeah," he said quickly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. "I think that'd be best."

I closed the door, waited a few seconds, and let Dean knock three times. I found that I didn't need to the force the smile that stretched my face out, sore from lack of use, when I set my eyes on him once again.

I tried not to stare at anything other than his face, though I was itching to take in every inch of him. He looked nice and sharp in a clean suit with shiny shoes, a vast contrast from the ratty gray flannel he'd worn to the diner.

His eyes, however, flitted up and down, mouth slightly parted in apparent appreciation.

"Hey," I said, trying my best to sound stern. "Eyes up here, mister."

He did that nervous throat-clearing thing again, grinning sideways, a Han Solo smile. He hid his embarrassment well, but coming from someone who'd practiced this skill many times, I saw right through it.

"You look nice," he mumbled, gaze fixed on my face to the point it was almost uncomfortable.

"You look nice, too," I said. "For a fake PI."

"I'm not—" He started.

But I laughed and slapped his arm playfully on the way by. I strode over to their old black car, though it'd clearly been kept in tip-top shape. I struggled to keep my groan inaudible. So he was one of _those_ guys, the kind that obsessed over their cars, always tinkering, always stroking bits of it. I supposed it was something I could get past, if it came to making compromises.

 _One step at a time, Y/N,_ I reminded myself. _One step at a time._

I smiled politely at Sam as I stood by the side of the car, giving him a little wave. He was wearing a suit, too. His lips flashed upward for a fraction of a second before his eyes darted away from me.

"You ready?" Dean asked, yanking open the driver's door.

"Uh, yeah," I said uncertainly. I'd been expecting him to open the door for me, but I guess he wasn't thinking that this was a maybe-date himself, or he was just trying to pretend it wasn't. "Should I just hop in the back?"

Dean did a double take, looking at me, then Sam, then me, then Sam again. He leaned down to peek in the car and barked, "Hey. Get in the back."

"What—Dean," I heard Sam sputter.

"Back. Now."

Sam huffed as he got out of the car and slid into the back with a struggle. His legs were crushed by the seat in front of him, looking like a grown man squeezed into a bumper car.

"If you want, I can—" I started, glancing between the brothers.

"Just get in," Dean said. "No arguments, all right? You ride shotgun."

So I got in. I twisted the silver ring dotted with tiny sapphires around my middle finger as we drove. Sam tapped away at his phone, scowling at whatever was on the screen. Dean bobbed his head along to whatever rock song was playing quietly in the background. I wished I knew what to say, but I couldn't figure out how to start a conversation with this man.

"So," I said slowly, racking my brains for something, _anything_ , to talk about. "How long have you been PIs?"

"As long as we can remember," Dean said, looking in the rearview mirror at his brother. "We grew up with this stuff. Our dad was a PI, too."

"Really? Where's his office? Are you guys local?"

Dean swallowed. It took him a while to answer, and when he did, his voice was low and gruff. Each word was a struggle for him. "No, uh, he died. Few years back, while he was on the job."

"Oh." I chewed on my bottom lip and stared out the window. The trees rushed by, blurry shapes in the darkness. "I'm sorry I asked."

"It's okay, you didn't know." Dean cleared his throat again, smiling in that way that didn't meet his eyes. The playful sparkle that was usually there was replaced by a dull pain, the kind that was hidden away for the benefit of others. "We don't have an office. We're freelancers. That's why we travel so much."

"That's cool." My voice was painfully upbeat in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Sometimes I wished I had a job like that. It'd be so cool to see more of the world. It seems like everything I do is the same. I've never left South Dakota for longer than a few days. Heck, I've never left Starryedge for longer than a few days."

"Believe me, it's not all it's cracked up to be," Dean said grimly. He turned the car smoothly, sliding into a parking lot right by the police station. "I envy the simplicity of your life."

He got out of the car and opened my door for me. I guess chivalry wasn't dead after all. I tried to get a read on their expressions, but they were both blank-faced and determined. I followed suit.

"Excuse me," Dean said, voice lower and a little more gruff than usual. He strode up to the desk at the front of the office where a man in a uniform was filing some manila folders. The phones inside were ringing like crazy, and everyone bustled about, looking just as frazzled as I felt when I worked at the diner.

The policeman looked up at Dean, gaze flickering briefly to Sam and me before asking, "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Dean said, sounding very official. "We're Detectives Coulson and Wetton, and this is our assistant, um—"

He looked over at me helplessly, and while I was confused at how the two brothers had different last names, I was able to snap out of it long enough to say, "Y/N Y/L/N."

"Right," Dean said, laughing nervously. "She's new. Anyway, I believe we had an appointment with the Sheriff?"

The policeman nodded, then gestured behind him. "You can go right in."

"Thanks."

Dean motioned for Sam and me to follow him. I made an effort to stand up straight and looked as if I belonged as we passed several men and women in uniforms.

"I thought you guys were brothers," I muttered to Sam, leaning in so Dean wouldn't hear.

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion, though he didn't look down at me. "What do you mean? We are."

"Detectives Coulson and Wetton? How come you have different last names?"

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but didn't have time to speak. Dean was already shaking hands with the sheriff.

"Detectives," the sheriff said, smiling a tight-lipped smile at Sam and Dean. He was short, squat, and balding. He was obviously stressed out. "Glad you could make it. And who might this be?"

"Y/N Y/L/N," I said quickly, taking the initiative and shaking his hand as well. Dean looked impressed. "I'm in training."

"Interesting," he said, though he didn't look interested at all. He sat down behind his desk, straightening the plaque that had his name engraved on it: _Sheriff Wilson._ "We don't get a lot of women in this business, especially private I's. I guess most of them would rather be at home, safe in their kitchens, amiright?"

He let out a booming laugh, and I resisted the urge to slap him.

"Actually," I said through gritted teeth. "I know at least three women my age in the police force. They tend to run circles around your men."

Dean coughed loudly, attempting to hide his smile behind his hand. Sam smirked and turned around, pretending to examine Wilson's diploma. He gaped at me for a good few seconds while I crossed my arms and gave him a withering look.

"Of course," he grunted finally, shaking his head a little. "The women here are some of our biggest assets. Anyway, you had questions for me?"

"Yes." Dean sat down in one of the chairs across from the Sheriff and Sam took the other. I leaned up against the wall, still a little ticked off at Wilson's attitude. "It's about Herman Glass."

"To be honest with you boys—" Wilson started, then hesitated, looking at me sideways. "—and girl, I'm not sure what you're expecting to find. Herman committed suicide, that's all there is to it."

Sam blinked a few times, then leaned forward, looking as if he were trying to find the right words to say. "Let me see if I'm understanding this right. A neighbor heard a shot being fired and called the police. You sent two men over there to check it out, they saw Herman on the kitchen floor with a bullet in his head, but no gun. After searching the area, they found a pistol outside toward the opposite side of the house, but all the doors and windows were locked."

The Sheriff nodded. "That's right."

"Here's what I want to know." Dean stood up and started to pace the floor. He was completely in his element like this, far smoother than he'd been in the diner. Though there was definitely something shifty here, something neither of the supposed brothers wanted to tell me, I couldn't deny they seemed like experts. "A guy decides to blow his brains out, he puts a gun up to his head, and bam." Dean mimed putting a pistol to the side of his head and pulling a trigger. "He dies instantly. Wouldn't the gun drop right beside him?"

"You would think," Wilson said, shrugging. "But not in all cases. Sometimes the shot doesn't kill the person right away. The gun could've ended up farther away."

"Yeah, but all the way on the other side of the house, _outside_?" Dean continued. He shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. "Seems a little fishy to me. How did Herman, through all the pain and disorientation, have the time to open the window, throw the gun outside, close and lock the window, and stumble to the kitchen before dying? Oh, and he did this without dripping any blood anywhere except for the kitchen floor, despite the giant pool of it surrounding him, right?"

Wilson folded his hands on the table and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at Dean, face turning a light shade of red. "Correct," he said slowly. "And I'm afraid I don't have a good answer for you, Detective, but that's just the way it is. We didn't find any fingerprints on the doors or windows besides Herman's, and they were all locked from the inside. There's no possible way this could've been a murder."

Sam and Dean exchanged brief looks, obviously silently communicating something to each other. I suddenly felt like a third wheel, on the outside with no clue what was going on. It felt like all those times when my friends who spoke Spanish had entire conversations while I stood by and watched, understanding nothing of what they were saying.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said, turning back to the Sheriff. "Just a few questions, then, you know, to cover all our bases. We know Herman was a hermit, but did he have _anyone_ who he talked to or had relations with in all his years of living here?"

"No, no family, no nothing," Wilson said. "He never married, never had any kids, and never dated, as far as I can tell. He hardly ever left the house. He worked from home, ordered pizzas and Chinese delivery almost every night. And the one time he did leave the house, he got into an accident."

This made them both perk up. "An accident?" Sam asked. "What kind of accident?"

"Just a car accident," Wilson said. "He had a pretty big crash with this young woman. He'd been checking Facebook on his phone." He licked his lips and looked down at his lap, suddenly solemn. "She died, actually. Killed on impact. That may have been what killed him in the end. He couldn't live with the guilt."

"Yeah," Sam said in a flat tone. "Maybe. What was the name of this girl?"

"Ellie? Elizabeth? Elysha? I'm not sure," Wilson said. "Her last name was Moss, I think. Yeah, I remembered thinking that I'd known a girl named Moss when I was younger. She was just sixteen or seventeen. No older than you." He jerked his chin at me.

I bit down on my tongue to keep my tone steady. "I'm twenty-nine."

"Oh." Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "My mistake. I suppose that's a good thing, though, eh? Keep you young longer, looking good. I know my wife would give anything to be as thin as you are right—"

"I don't think that's very appropriate," I suddenly snapped, just as Dean said, "Whoa, hey, back off, buddy."

"My apologies," Wilson said, holding his hands up as if he were surrendering. "My wife always said I didn't know how to talk to women."

"Clearly," I said in a clipped tone. "A little tip: we're no different than anybody else you talk to. All right? There's no need to be condescending."

"I wasn't—"

"Why don't we get back to the case," Sam suggested, calm as ever. "Where's this girl buried?"

"Moss?" Wilson said, eyebrows furrowed together into one bushy line. "The only cemetery in town, why?"

"And where would that be?" Sam pressed him, ignoring his question.

"Across from the library," Wilson said cautiously. "But again, why? What does this have to do with the case, if there even is a case?"

"What we do is our business," Dean said, buttoning up his jacket. "One last question. When your men inspected the house, did they happen to notice anything weird?"

"Weird how?" Wilson's eyes were squinted to slits now.

"Like, say, cold spots?" Dean said. He pressed his lips together, cutting off the last word quickly, like he didn't actually want the Sheriff to hear him.

"I have no idea," Wilson said. He stood up, and I noticed just how small he was compared to Sam and Dean. Even I was taller than him. "Just what kind of PIs are you? Who hired you?"

"That's confidential," Dean said simply, and turned to me. "Ready to go?"

"Oh hell yes," I muttered. I turned to the Sheriff on my way by, hoping that my expression was blank and stony. "Sheriff," I said coolly.

"Miss, ma'am, Detective," Wilson stuttered nervously. His face was the color of a tomato.

"Nice work back there," I said under my breath, trying my best to keep up with Sam and Dean's long strides.

"Thanks," Dean said. "You weren't too bad yourself."

"I'm sure you have to deal with all sorts of asshats like him in your job."

They both smirked, and I marveled at how similar they were. Their facial expressions were practically identical, they had to be related. So why the different names?

I didn't work up the courage to ask Dean about it before they dropped me off at my house. I stood on the sidewalk and peered into the rolled down window on the driver's side.

"So," I said, giving him a small smile. "Dinner tomorrow?"

Thankfully, he returned the smile, green eyes twinkling once more. He seemed so much softer outside of the police station, so much gentler. Now that I was seeing him like this, it was hard to remember how strict and interrogative he'd been. He was an enigma, this one.

"Yeah," he said quietly. I'll pick you up. Is seven good again?"

I nodded. "Perfect. See you then."

I watched them drive away, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. It suddenly felt colder standing by myself on the side of the street, lonelier. I waited until I could no longer hear the rumble of the old engine before going inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dean**

"This is not good," Sam said once the two brothers had returned to the motel. "You're smitten."

"Am not," Dean grumbled back, a feeble, childish argument. He tossed his suit jacket over the desk chair and loosened his tie.

Sam wasn't convinced. He crossed his arms and gave Dean an accusatory stare. "Dean, under normal circumstances, I'd have been kicked out of the room so you and her could have some 'alone time.' But you're actually acting like a gentleman around her."

Dean shrugged and flipped on the TV. "Yeah, sure, whatever, Sammy. Have you ever thought that maybe she's just not my type?"

Sam snorted. "She's smart, she's spunky, and she has looks to spare. How is that not your type?"

"Smart? Sounds more like your type, man."

"You know what I mean." Sam set his laptop on the desk and turned it on. "She's not ditzy. She's your equal. You're going on a _date_ with her, Dean. When was the last time you went on a date?"

"Like three days ago."

"No, you went to a bar and picked up a girl. That is _not_ a date. This Y/N girl has you acting all mushy and stuff."

"Shut up. I'm not having this conversation with you." Dean gave an aggravated sigh and turned the TV off, tossing the remote on the bed. "Find anything?"

"Yeah," Sam said. He tapped the down arrow a few times on his laptop and frowned. "A fat load of nothing. There's nobody named Moss anywhere in this town or the towns over. Nor is there anybody named Ellie, Elizabeth, or Elysha."

"Go figure," Dean grumbled, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He found himself wondering if he should trim up a little bit before the date tomorrow, then shook his head a little to clear it. He needed to stay focused. The case was more important right now. "Are there are any articles about the accident? Maybe her name was mentioned there."

"That's a good idea." Sam quickly tapped a few words on the keyboard, then paused. "Huh."

"Huh what?"

"No articles." Sam clicked a few links, but ended up backing out of them all. "Weird. Don't you think a fatal car crash would've made the headlines?"

"If not the front page," Dean said. He nudged his brother aside. "Let me see."

"See?" Sam said after Dean had the exact same luck as him. "Nothing."

"You think it was hushed up?"

"Why would it be hushed up?"

Dean shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe—" His eyes suddenly widened. "No friggin' way."

Sam sat up straight and leaned closer to the screen. "What? What happened? What did you do?"

"Nothing." Dean backed up to let Sam take control. "I went to an article, the headline said something like, 'car crash kills teen,' but when I clicked it, it just—vanished."

"Like it was a broken link?"

"No, like it never existed."

Sam's eyes widened, and he jumped out of the chair like something had burned him. "Hang on."

Dean watched him rummage around in his duffel bag. Sam came back to the laptop, EMF meter in hand.

"No," Dean said quietly, disbelieving. "It can't—"

"It can," Sam said. He held up the meter so Dean could see. All the red lights were glowing and it let out a loud whistle. "The spirit's trying to erase herself. That's why we can't find anything about her."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Spirits can do that?"

Sam shrugged and tossed the EMF meter back in his duffel bag. "Maybe. Creatures are always evolving; maybe this one's a little stronger than the others."

Dean clapped his hands together. "Herman had been on his phone! Do you think—"

"She held on to the Internet," Sam said excitedly. "So online records won't help us any. We'll have to find actual newspapers."

"Too bad the library's closed," Dean said, chewing on his lip. "We'll have to go tomorrow morning."

"I'm beat anyway," Sam sighed. "Some rest will do us good." He clapped Dean's back on his way to the bathroom. "You can get ready for your big date tomorrow."

"It's not a big date," Dean mumbled, but Sam wasn't listening. He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at his brother before closing the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Y/N**

I couldn't sleep that night. I couldn't stop thinking about the next day, about my date. My date with _Dean_. Dean, the mystery man who, ironically, solves mysteries. With his supposed brother who has a different last name.

 _You're making assumptions,_ the more rational part of me reminded the crazier part. _They could be stepbrothers. Sam could be married._

 _But there was no ring,_ the crazier part of me argued. _And they sure do act alike._

So I didn't what any sane person would do. I googled him.

When 'Dean Coulson private investigator' didn't bring up any results, I tried 'Dean Wetton.' Then 'Sam Coulson,' then 'Sam Wetton,' then 'Coulson and Wetton.' Nothing, nothing, nothing.

I leaned back in my desk chair, propping my feet up on the table. You'd think two freelancer PIs would want to have a website of some sort. _Unless they didn't want to be found._ No, that was ridiculous. Why wouldn't they want to be found? They would want work, of course they would.

I should've grabbed a business card.

Finally, I tried 'Sam and Dean private investigator.' And while it brought up results, it wasn't exactly what I was expecting.

"Carver Edlund?" I muttered to myself in the darkness. I clicked through link after link of Tumblrs, fan-fiction, and websites dedicated to a series of paranormal books called _Supernatural_. The main characters were Sam and Dean, two brothers who roamed the country, fighting monsters, saving the world from destruction, etc. They were superheroes without the fame, their costumes flannel plaid shirts and leather jackets, their weapons shotgun shells filled with salt and a magic knife stolen from a demon who was later killed.

No. No, it couldn't be.

I downloaded the first book, _Supernatural_ , and read the entire thing in one sitting. Then the next book, then the one after that. They were impossible to put down. And they also freaked me out, big time. The way Sam and Dean were described were exactly how the Sam and Dean real life looked and acted. But the fake Sam and Dean's last name was Winchester, not Coulson or Wetton.

But the Winchesters also pretended to be authorities in order to get information. They used fake names and dressed up in fancy suits so people would tell them things. Their names were usual the names of old rock band members, as Dean was a huge fan of classic rock.

They drove an old car. A black, 1967 Chevy Impala. Just like the one I'd ridden shotgun in.

I looked up 'Coulson and Wetton,' no 'private investigators' tacked on to the end.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," I said aloud. Coulson and Wetton weren't private investigators. They were rock stars from the band Asia.

That's when I started freaking out. Like, _really_ freaking out.

 _Ghosts aren't real. They aren't real. None of it's real. This is just some crazy, bizarre coincidence. You're fine. It's all fine._

Dear god, the suicide. Herman Glass' "supposed" suicide. What had Dean said to me? _The police are often wrong about this stuff._ He thought he knew better. Not because he was a private investigator. Because he was a hunter.

I spent the rest of the night huddled underneath my blankets with all the lights on, one thought going through my head. _Was I going on a date with a Winchester?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Dean**

"Hi," Sam said, taking the initiative. Dean was a little surprised—he usually started conversations with the locals—but then again, he wasn't. Sam had always gotten excited when he entered a library. The mere site of books was enough to brighten his day. Where Dean was more comfortable in a bar or a diner—his thoughts wandered to Y/N for the third time that morning—this was Sam's element.

The librarian—a red-haired girl with horn-rimmed glasses and a nametag that read "Brittany"—smiled at Sam. "Hey. Can I help you?"

"If you can show us where the newspapers are," Sam said.

Brittany laughed a little before realizing that Sam wasn't joking. "Really?" She said. "You wouldn't rather use the computers? They're free to the public, you know."

"The newspapers are fine," Sam insisted. "But thanks."

Brittany shook her head, but said, "All right, if you're sure. You can follow me."

She led them through a twisting maze of bookshelves and reading nooks, Sam's eyes widening with each step they took. Dean smirked at his little brother, suddenly stricken by how young he looked in that moment. It was a nice change from the usual determined, serious scowl he wore during hunts.

"There you go." Brittany drummed her fingers along the top of a flimsy wire rack carrying maybe a dozen newspapers. "Papers from the past week or so. You can keep them, if you want. No one reads them, anyway."

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to have some that are a little more . . . dated, would you?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Brittany narrowed her eyes at him, letting her gaze flicker to Dean briefly. "How dated?"

Sam shrugged and looked over at Dean, asking him silently for an answer.

"Two years?" Dean suggested.

"I have a whole bunch stacked up in Courtney's office," she said. "She uses them for the story time crafts, but they aren't sorted or anything. It's impossible to find anything specific, if that's what you're here for."

Dean resisted from making a sarcastic noise or comment. The word "impossible" just encouraged him further.

"That's fine," Sam assured her. "You think we can spread out at a back table somewhere?"

Once Brittany had helped the two brothers get settled in the basement/kid's section, they got to work. Sam slapped a stack of papers at least a foot high in front of him, flipping through the pages right away. Dean sighed at the number of boxes around them, feeling disheartened. This was going to take a lot longer than he thought. He pretended not to notice how quickly the clock spun closer to seven.

Dean suggested taking a break around two for some lunch at the diner, but he was shot down immediately by Sam, who tossed him two Slim Jims from his pockets. Dean muttered something under his breath about rabbit food when Sam unwrapped a granola bar, but continued to work in silence after that until six.

Dean tossed what seemed like the thousandth paper aside, watching it slide across the table and land with a _thwump_ on the ground. "Man, I'm going crazy. I don't know how much longer I can sit here."

"You'll be fine, Dean," Sam mumbled distractedly.

"I'm serious. I can't sit still. I have to do something, something productive."

"Like go on a date?"

Dean felt his whole face flush, glaring at Sam when he looked up at him, grinning.

"No," Dean spat, utterly flustered. Sam pressed his lips together, probably to prevent laughter from slipping out. "That's not what I—I didn't mean—shut up."

"I get it," Sam said, unfolding another newspaper. "I'd be excited, too. I mean, she's definitely pretty."

 _Pretty?_ Dean though. _She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen._

But Dean didn't say things like that out loud. Definitely not to his brother, who was already teasing him mercilessly about what he thought was simply a crush. But the word "crush" didn't seem to apply to the way Dean felt about Y/N, but "love" seemed too strong for someone he'd only met yesterday. He wished there were something in between, some word that could describe the sparks of blossoming flames he felt in his stomach.

Dean cleared his throat and tried to sound gruff and manly as he said, "Yeah, man, she's hot."

Even though Dean couldn't see the satisfied smirk on Sam's face, he knew he was seeing right through this facade, this sad attempt at normalcy. Nothing about this was normal.

 _Don't get attached,_ Dean had to remind himself. _You get one date, you owe her that. Then you cut all ties and drive away._

He could not let her affect him like this. Because once this case was shut, he'd leave, just like he always did. That was just the way it was. Put out the fire and pack the bags, that was the routine. Anytime he tried to change that, he only ended up hurting more people around him.

When Dean started bouncing his leg up and down around six-thirty, Sam sighed and slammed another stack of papers on the table.

"Go," he said.

Dean didn't need to be told twice.

#

Six-fifty-five. Dean had just turned onto her street when Sam called. Dean threw his head against the back of his seat in frustration, taking deep breaths when he answered.

"What?" He snarled.

"Katie Forester," was Sam's greeting.

"Fantastic," Dean said dryly. "Let me know when she's taken care of."

"Dean, I need your help."

"With what?" Dean pulled over a few houses down from Y/N's, just in case this argument didn't end the way he wanted it to. "You've done plenty of salt-and-burns by yourself before."

"Yeah, but not with a spirit like this. I think she's evolved into something more dangerous than we're used to. Please, just help me dig up the grave."

Dean closed his eyes and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, itching to just hang up and drive a few more yards toward her driveway.

"Fine," he spat. "But you so owe me one. Or three."

"Absolutely," Sam sighed, obviously relieved at your choice. "Meet me at the graveyard."

Dean hung up and tossed his phone unceremoniously onto the passenger seat, groaning a little. He tried not to picture what she was wearing right now, tried to keep the memory of her eyes looking into his shoved way back into a distant corner of his mind. He hoped she'd understand or at least give him the benefit of the doubt when he didn't show up that night. He wished he could tell her how much it was killing him not to have the chance to take her out and walk her home and, maybe, if the date had gone well, kiss her goodnight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Y/N**

It was seven-thirty when I finally gave up hope. I should've known he wouldn't come. Why did I keep doing this to myself? Why did I keep setting myself up for disappointment? Three guys "just passing through" had asked me out in the past month—the diner was a popular rest stop—but not one of them had followed through. Why did I think Dean was going to be any different?

But I'd read enough of the books to know what Dean was like. He may have liked to play around with the ladies, but he didn't stand them up. He didn't cheat on them or make promises he couldn't keep. He treated them right.

 _Stop it,_ I chastised myself. _That's just fiction. None of it's real._

All the same, I couldn't help but wonder. Maybe something had happened. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got lost.

Before I lost the courage and changed my mind, I grabbed my keys from the kitchen table and went outside.

I took the back roads on the way to the motel. It was quicker that way, and I didn't want to waste any more of my time waiting than I already had. I hoped that's where they were staying and that I wasn't just making assumptions. It was the only place in town where they _could_ be staying really, but still. I didn't know if they had family. For all I knew, they could be staying with an aunt and uncle or grandparent somewhere nearby.

 _Sam and Dean don't have any family,_ that annoying little part of my brain consumed with Carver Edlund said.

 _Shut up,_ the other part snarled. _They're just stories._

Something caught my eye, a flash in the darkness, and I slammed on the brakes. It was cold outside, but the heaters were blasting, so the windows were all fogged up. I squinted and rolled down the passenger's window. A blast of frigid air hit me in the face, goose bumps rising on my arms. Then I heard a scream.

"Sam!"

It was Dean. I knew it was. He shouted his brother's name just like I'd imagined he would while reading the books. Then my stomach dropped, like I'd missed a step going downstairs. There was only one reason for Dean to yell like that, panic and fury bursting from him as if someone had punched it out of him.

 _Just stories,_ I reminded myself.

But maybe not. All stories had to come from somewhere, right?

Dean yelled for Sam again, followed by an urgent command of some sort, though I couldn't make out what it was over the erratic beating of my heart. Was I brave enough for this?

In the end it didn't matter, because both boys were shouting now, and whatever war was raging out in that cemetery, they were losing. Someone had to help them.

I left the keys in the ignition, barely remembering to shift the car into park before leaping into the harsh night air. It was a good thing I'd chosen to wear flats instead of heels. Running through the slick grass in a dress was hard enough. I slipped several times before reaching them.

I gasped audibly. Sam and Dean were each lifted at least a foot off the ground, pinned against a large oak tree. A shimmering, gray, ghostly young woman held a pale hand in the air, trembling in their direction. Their legs were kicking out at nothing, and they clawed at their throats as if attempting to pull imaginary ropes from their necks, choking.

Sam saw me first, eyes widening, face turning blue.

"Y/N!" He managed to choke out.

Dean saw me then. I thought he was going to pass out right there from shock. His lips moved in an attempt to say something, but all that came out of his mouth were helpless, gurgling noises. I had to do something.

The woman followed their gaze to me. She bared her teeth, shooting me a glare that made my legs shake. Her thick black hair was wild and hung in strings around her hollow face, skin a sickly, translucent white. There was no life behind those eyes, not that I expected there to be. Confronted with the evidence now, there was no denying it. The stories were real.

Which meant that I was standing feet away from a vengeful spirit with nothing to protect me.

"Iron," I gasped, not trusting my voice to stay steady enough for more than a few words. "W-where's your iron?"

Dean pulled one hand away from his throat to point to a spot in the grass next to a pile of dirt. They'd dug up someone's grave and smashed the coffin open, but the abandoned canister of salt and gallon of gasoline lying next to it told me that they never got a chance to finish their job.

I stumbled forward, darting past the ghost to the pipe sitting on the ground. It was heavier than I'd expected, but that could've been due to the fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins. I'd barely straightened up to take a swing when I thrown backward into a nearby tree. The breath was knocked out of me, black spots dancing in my vision.

Sam and Dean shouted something, but the words didn't register as the woman flickered and vanished only to reappear in front of me. I was utterly frozen with terror. I felt my feet leave the ground, legs dangling in the air. My throat constricted. I tried to call for help, but no sound would come out. The panic in my chest wasn't helping, either. The ghost's hands were coming ever closer. The sight of her long, pointed nails and bony fingers did it for me. I found the strength to lift the heavy pipe and swing it at her head.

That seemed to do the trick. Her form blurred into a swirling cloud of fog before disappearing completely. I slid down the trunk, crumpling in a heap on the ground, coughing as my lungs expanded with fresh air. I pushed myself into a standing position, turning in frantic circles. Where had she gone?

Then I saw Dean charge her with a pipe of his own a few yards away. It was a losing battle, I could tell just from the way he was waving his weapon around. They were both obviously tired. They must've been at this for a while, moving as if each step were a struggle, sweat shining in the moonlight on their foreheads.

Sam lunged for the container of salt, but the spirit noticed and rushed at him, hands wrapping around his throat. He choked and struggled, flailing arms knocking the salt out of reach. "Dean!" He sputtered.

While Sam and Dean tried to hold off the ghost on their own, swinging the pipe aimlessly and getting slammed into trees, I flattened myself on the ground. I inched slowly forward, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I stretched out a shaking hand. Just a few more feet and I'd have it.

 _There._ My fingers brushed the container and bumped it closer to me. I shook it over the grave, wincing when I caught sight of the corpse. I hadn't been prepared to see a dead body tonight.

After the salt came the gasoline, and now I was getting nervous. The boys were trying to keep the girl distracted, but she was fast and strong and they looked exhausted. I didn't have much time to get this done.

The can of gasoline was heavy in my limp arms, but I managed to douse the coffin and the girl with it. I set it down, careful not to spill any on the grass or myself. The last thing I needed was to send the whole place up in flames.

I fumbled around in the darkness, fingers probing the dirt for a box of matches or a lighter. When I didn't find anything, I looked up at Sam and Dean. They were both jerking around on the ground, gritting their teeth and grunting against the effort to draw in a breath.

But Dean noticed me. His green eyes found mine in the dim light and he went still, hand drifting to his pocket. He tossed something small my way and I caught it. A lighter.

 _Click, hiss, whoosh._ It took barely a second to set it all on fire. The woman jerked away from both boys, shrieking. Something sparked at her feet and soon her whole body was consumed in smoke and ash and burning red. I shielded my eyes against the site as she grew brighter. Then she was gone, all at once, leaving behind only the crackling of the fire behind me.

Sam and Dean slowly pushed themselves into sitting positions. They were silent for a long time, gazing at their surroundings, then at me. I felt my face flush, and I busied myself with brushing dirt from my dress.

"Um, so—" Sam started, blinking rapidly. He looked at me, then at Dean, then at me again. "That was—"

"Unexpected?" Dean finished for him, finding his voice. He almost seemed angry, though I wasn't sure at what. "A close one? Insane? Why didn't you tell us you were a hunter?"

"What?" I said defensively. Why was he mad at _me_? "Why didn't I tell _you_? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I thought you were a normal girl with a normal life!" Dean said, both he and Sam getting to their feet. They towered over me once again.

"I am!"

Now it was his turn to blink at me, mouth parted so his lips formed a small 'o' shape. "Come again?"

"I'm not a hunter." I crossed my arms over my chest. "I didn't even know this crap existed up until last night. But it would've been nice to have had a heads up. I asked you straight up at the diner yesterday if I had anything to worry about, and you said no."

"Because Sam and I were taking care of it," he argued.

I snorted. "Clearly."

"How did you find out, anyway?" Sam asked, hunching over a little so he wasn't quite so tall. It hardly made any difference.

I shrugged. "You two were acting screwy. Something didn't add up, so I did a little digging."

"Digging?" Dean said.

"Yeah. Once I figured out that Coulson and Wetton were rock stars, _not_ private investigators, I found out who you were."

They stared at me, bewilderment plastered on their faces.

"The books?" I said. "The _Supernatural_ series, _Winchester Gospels_ , whatever you call them?"

Dean swore under his breath several times, cursing a guy named Chuck, whoever he was. Sam just looked annoyed.

"You shouldn't have come," Dean said once he'd finished his muttered rant. "We would've gotten it under control. You could've been killed."

"But I wasn't, and I just saved both your asses."

Sam's lips twitched and he said, "You know, Dean—"

"Nope." Dean held up a hand to silence him, giving his head one firm shake. "Zip it. Y/N, you don't have any training—"

"Oh please, if it weren't for me you'd be _dead_. Could you just shut up and thank me already?"

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, studying me carefully. I felt myself burn up under his steady gaze, but I wasn't able to look away. I was mesmerized the way someone's mesmerized by a car crash or house in flames. There was something dark there, something dangerous, but also something kind. The good, the bad, the secret, it all meshed together to form this man, this magnet that was drawing me closer to him.

"How about you make it up to me?" I finally suggested. "For me almost getting killed."

"What do you have in mind?" Dean said suspiciously.

I shrugged again, a grin creeping onto my face. "We never got to go on that date."

Dean ducked his head to hide his smile, but I saw it. Even though I couldn't see his lips, I could see his happiness. It brightened his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. I noticed Sam smiling at me, too, the way a brother might smile at a younger sister.

"What do you say?" I prompted him.

"I'll go get cleaned up," Dean said, gesturing to the mud on his clothes. I noticed a darker splotch amongst the earth, something reddish.

"Is that _blood_?" I said, stepping forward for a closer look.

"It's nothing." Dean shifted his leather jacket so it covered the stain on his shirt. "It happens all the time on hunts."

It pained me a little, how easily he brushed something like that off. Like he'd merely stubbed his toe or burned his tongue. But I nodded and didn't say anything else.

"Do you know where Nico's is?" I asked.

"Is that the Italian place on Sycamore?"

"Yeah. Best pizza in town."

Dean's grin rose up on one side, a sideways smiled that made my stomach drop again, this time for entirely different reasons. "I love pizza."

"Meet you there at eight."

Dean got started on filling the grave back up, and I passed Sam on the way back to my car. He caught my elbow before I could leave and turned me around.

"Hey, thanks for helping us back there," he mumbled, low enough so Dean wouldn't hear. "Dean won't say it, but I can tell he was impressed. Hell, I'm kind of in awe of you right now."

I let my gaze flicker to my muddy feet at his compliment. "Thanks. But I didn't really know what I was doing. I just kind of let my instinct take over."

"Sometimes instinct's better than any training you could've gotten," Sam said. "You'd make a good hunter."

"You think?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You've definitely got the guts for it."

I let his words sink in, turning circles in my head. _You've definitely got the guts for it._ Now that I wasn't in life-threatening danger, I felt my lips curve into a small smile. It had been kind of fun. The thrill of it all, heart pounding, breathless, it was just like riding a roller coaster. I'd always loved amusement parks.

 _Maybe_ s and _what if_ s swirled around me on the way home, and it wasn't until I pulled into the driveway that I realized I'd taken their pipe with me.


	9. Chapter 9

**Dean**

"Do not leave this motel room, you hear me?" Dean shook his finger vigorously at his younger brother, shooting him a look stern enough to make anyone else freeze in their tracks. Sam just laughed.

"Don't worry, Dean. I'm not gonna go looking for trouble, all right? You just enjoy your date."

When Sam smiled a little too widely, Dean crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Stop it."

Sam pressed his lips together to stop from grinning and blinked up at him with huge, puppy-dog eyes. "Stop what?"

"That. That—look. You've got that 'isn't-Dean-adorable-and-so-easy-to-tease' look."

"Well. You are an easy target."

" _Sam_."

"Okay, okay." Sam held up his hands in surrender and busied himself with turning on his laptop. "I'll shut up now. Have fun."

But Dean wasn't satisfied. Sam's cheeks were still twitching with barely suppressed glee. Dean frowned at him from the doorway.

"I don't have a crush on her," he said defensively.

"Didn't say you did."

"Good. 'Cause I don't."

When Sam just tapped on his keyboard, Dean continued, "I mean, she's beau—pretty—hot—whatever, and she's smart, and funny, and knows about—about us. But—"

Dean broke off, stuttering. He had this mental image of digging himself into a whole and Sam leaning over the edge of it, laughing, and throwing dirt on top of him. Nothing he said could make this better.

"Yeah, sure, Dean," Sam said, beaming so he showed all his teeth, though he kept his eyes fixed on the laptop screen. "You don't have a crush on her. Okay."

"I don't."

"Great."

"You can keep saying that I do, but that doesn't mean—"

"Dean, it's eight."

Dean swore several times, mumbling things like, " _Crapcrapcrap_ , I should've taken a shorter shower," and raced out the door.

He spent the ride over focusing on taking deep breaths, swerving a few times to avoid hitting cars or other pedestrians. He couldn't get his mind to stop wandering. Every time he tried to pick a mind-numbing topic to think about in order to calm himself down, his brain went, "Nah, we'll just do this instead. No big deal." It then proceeded to crank up his anxiety levels by belting out "Blank Space" while waltzing through the diner. Each of the waitresses were Y/N. And Dean couldn't seem to think of one interesting thing to say.

"Come on, Winchester," Dean muttered once he pulled up to Nico's. The parking lot was dark and filled with fog, but the restaurant was incredibly bright. Just from looking through the window he could tell it was full of life. Families of young children shared a large pizza in the back booth. Couples twirled forks of pasta around their plates, gazing into each other's eyes. The kitchen, which anyone could see from their seats, was steamy and crowded. The waiters and waitresses were constantly laughing, joking with the customers and teasing each other. "You can do this."

Dean attempted to smooth down his hair a little—no such luck—and checked his reflection in the window of the car. He'd abandoned his usual plaid for a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. He didn't even know he owned clothes like these before he found them crumpled at the bottom of his duffel bag. It had taken forever for him to get the majority of the wrinkles out. He barely recognized himself, anti-possession tattoo peeking out from the unbuttoned part of the shirt near the collar. Dean Winchester did not dress like this. Dean Winchester did not go on dates.

Dean Winchester did not fall for diner girls.

Y/N was already sitting at a table when Dean went inside. He ignored the flip his stomach performed upon seeing her smile and little wave, beckoning for him to come over. She was wearing a new dress, one that was not covered in mud and leftover rain. This one was shorter—it only came to her knees—and was a velvety blue, the color of a night sky. Her hair was shinier than usual, not perfect in that every-hair-in-its-place sort of way, but more in a windblown, natural way. Like she'd driven over here with the windows down and knew she could pull off the look. Dean found he was distracted by the way her eyes popped in the bright light.

"Hey," she said, resting her elbows on the table when he sat down. "You look nice."

"Thanks." Dean tugged at his sleeve, even though there was nothing wrong with it. "I figured there had to be some middle ground between blood-soaked plaid and a pretentious suit."

"It's a good fit. How's your cut?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Dean ignored the stabbings of pain that were gradually beginning to fade now that he was in Y/N's presence. Something about her was better than any drugs Sam could've given him.

"It looked pretty bad earlier," she pressed, dropping her gaze to her water glass. She stirred the ice with her straw, watching the cubes clink against each other musically.

"Injuries always look worse than they actually are. Take it from me."

"So, injuries are a frequent occurrence on—hunts? That part's not made up?"

Dean frowned, forehead crinkling. "What do you mean made up?"

Y/N looked very sheepish now, but Dean found he didn't mind her expression. He didn't mind any expression she could wear. Each one was so different, so surprisingly out in the open. He loved that she wasn't afraid to scowl at a sheriff, laugh at his jokes, raise her eyebrows at Sam. After years of pulling and poking and prodding at Sam to open up and admit that he wasn't doing so well and needed help, her openness was refreshing.

Dean shook his head a little. He'd been staring at her eyelashes. They were so long.

"Like in the books," she finally mumbled, tracing swirling lines across the tabletop, mesmerizing designs. Dean let his gaze slip into a trance and followed her fingertip. "The Carver Edlund series? Did all of that really happen?"

"How much did you read?" Dean asked.

"A lot," she admitted. "I had some time on my hands today and I didn't really sleep at all last night. Those books read fast. I looked up a lot of summaries, 'cause I wanted information, you know? I didn't know what to think at the time. I also, um, kind of read some—" She cringed, risking a glance up at Dean, biting her bottom lip. "—fan-fiction. About you guys."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Fan-fiction?"

She nodded. "There's this Tumblr user—Bradbury67?"

She faltered, no doubt noticing how Dean's face darkened at the name, exasperation pouring out of every orifice.

"She wouldn't happen to describe a certain angel as 'helpful' and 'dreamy,' would she?" He asked dryly.

"You know her?" She said in response.

"Yeah, we know her," Dean said. "She's practically our little sister. But I definitely did not know about her writing fan-fiction. How—what exactly did she—"

Y/N smirked, an impossibly adorable smile that quirked up on just one side. Dean inwardly cursed himself for allowing a mirroring smile on his own face. "She paired you with Cas."

Dean rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "That's just great."

"Hey, better than some of the other stuff I read," Y/N argued. "There was this one girl called BeckWinchester176 who wrote some pretty graphic stuff featuring her with Sam."

Dean thought he was going to hurl.

"So you basically know everything about us," he said, pretty sure that it wasn't a positive thing.

She shrugged. "If these previously unpublished novels are really by Carver Edlund—"

"Chuck," Dean found himself interrupting.

"Sorry?"

Dean sighed heavily. "His name is Chuck. We met him."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't press the point. "Anyway, if the summaries for the lost novels that BeckWinchester176 posted online are _real_ , then I know everything from your mom to Metatron."

Dean let out a long whistle. "Wow. Yeah, that about covers it."

Her eyes widened even more, and she glanced around the restaurant as if making sure no one was listening in. She leaned closer. "So it's all true? The demon blood, the trips to hell, the apocalypse, Adam, Crowley, the trials, all of it?"

Dean nodded. "Unfortunately."

She stared at him for a long time, unblinkingly, mouth half open.

"I'm sorry," she said after a little while, shaking her head and looking away. "It's just—yesterday I was just a girl living a normal, boring life in a normal, boring town, and now I've learned there are monsters out there. Honest to God monsters. And I'm on a date with a guy who hunts them. Hell, I'm on a date with a guy who I just _saved_ from a friggin' ghost."

Dean tried to ignore the little blips of warmth he felt every time she said the word 'date.' "You did kick some ass back there."

"I did." She seemed sincerely proud of herself, straightening up a little and grinning. "I killed a ghost. On my first try. Sam said he thinks I could be a hunter."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "God I hope not."

Y/N's smile faltered. She fiddled with her straw wrapper. "How come?"

"I don't know if you noticed from all those books, but being a hunter isn't exactly glamorous. It's not like we're movie stars or singing sensations. We don't live in fancy houses or make any money. It's tough. It's dangerous."

"Whoever said I was going for glamour?" She said quietly. "All I've ever wanted is a change of pace. Travel, a little adventure, maybe do something noble, make the world a better place. You know, I think the best thing that's happened to me in a very long time is meeting you at the diner. Maybe finding out about all this is just what I needed to shake things up."

Dean wasn't able to pull away from the intensity of her gaze, the brilliant blueness of her eyes. There were whole world there, galaxies, entire dimensions waiting to be explored. He wished he could sit there for hours, just losing himself in her.

But all he could do was whisper, "You don't want to be a hunter."

"You don't get to tell me what I want."

He had to admire her persistence. Independence, confidence, security, wit, intelligence, kindness, bravery, these were all things he love in a woman. But it wasn't until now that he'd found someone who not only possessed one of these traits, but all of them. And he was falling deeper and deeper into something he was afraid he wouldn't be able to climb back out of. If he were a selfish man, he would happily let gravity take its course. But he couldn't screw up somebody else's life, not when they actually had a chance. He had to pull the parachute and make his way back to the highway.

"You have a good shot at a great life, Y/N," he said, watching as each word pushed himself further away from her. It killed him a little inside, but he knew it was for the best. "Trust me, _believe_ me, becoming a hunter is not the solution."

She was not impressed. Nothing Dean said had any affect on her whatsoever. If anything, it only bored her. She raised a single eyebrow, half-frowning in exasperation, half-grinning in amusement. She leaned across the table so their faces were inches apart. He could hear her breathing.

"Listen," she said, slow enough and low enough so she made her point quite clear. She was not to be interrupted. She was not to be ignored. "Starryedge has been my home for as long as I can remember. I love it here. But I'm not going to waste my precious days behind the counter of a diner bar, wiping up spilled milkshakes and soggy fries. I'm going to see the world, whether you like it or not. And now that I know that there are things out there that need to be taken down, you better believe I'm gonna take a few of the bastards down along the way. I _am_ going to train as a hunter. The question is, am I going at it alone or are you going to help me?"

Dean wanted more than anything in that moment to kiss her, right then and there. But there were people and she was staring and damn it, he was intimidated by every aspect of her. Dean Winchester, demon slayer, feared hunter, has the king of hell wrapped around his finger. And he was terrified of this girl.

He had never felt so alive.

Their food arrived then, delaying his response. The heavenly aroma of gooey cheese and creamy red sauce and spicy sausage made his mouth water. Warmth wafted up to his face, making his lips twitch up.

"If this tastes as good as it smells, I'm going to need a second stomach," Dean said.

Y/N laughed. _Goddammit that laugh_. It made him light-headed and crazy all over again. He couldn't think straight with her grinning like that.

"You're in for a treat," she promised. "But I'm still waiting for that answer."

He knew better than to play dumb. "I don't know, Y/N. You're right, you just barely learned about all this stuff, which is why I'm worried you're rushing into things. It's a lot to take in. Even I have a hard time handling it all sometimes. I just think it's better if you thought about it for a little longer."

"There's nothing to think about," she answered without a moment's hesitation, not even a hint of uncertainty in her voice. If there was one thing Dean was sure he could count on from her, it was honesty. "I have no family, no ties to this town other than my upbringing, and nothing to lose. Nobody will miss me."

Dean could understand now how she felt. The loneliness of it all, the itch to go somewhere, to do something, anything to distract from the emptiness inside. If there was something that could fill that hole more than almost anything else, it was hunting.

There was, of course, the other obvious option to fill the hole, but that scared Dean much more than hunting did. That was far more dangerous with far more painful consequences if it didn't go well.

"You're sure?" Dean asked, giving her one more chance to back out.

She nodded. "I've never been more positive."

Dean thought his heart would pound so hard, it'd break right through his ribcage. What the hell was Sam going to say when he brought her home? "Okay. We've got work to do. But first—" He held up his slice of pizza, cheese and grease and sauce dripping onto his plate. "We eat."

#

Talking with Y/N was so relaxing and comfortable, Dean forgot he'd only known her for a few hours. He had to remind himself that she wasn't someone he'd grown up with, that he wasn't in fact falling into step and picking up where he'd left off so many years ago. There were aspects about her that reminded him so much of all the people he loved, the perfect combination of Sam's sarcasm and kindness, Cas' idealism of the human race, Charlie's unapologetic attitude of embracing who you are. She was all that and more. And he had to hold himself back from saying something he'd regret saving for later. Some words, like wine, aged with time. Some things are better left unsaid until a special occasion arises.

It was only when she stopped talking a couple hours later that he realized how quiet the restaurant actually was. Somehow he'd missed everyone else walking out the door throughout the night. The only sounds were the tappings of their spoons against the gelato shot glasses and the distant clanking of dishes in the kitchen.

"What?" Dean said, matching her small smile with one of his own. It was so effortless. Her happiness was infectious.

"Nothing," she said quietly. That not-quite-but-it-may-as-well-be kind of whisper that's loud in a completely different sense. It demanded attention in a soft, gentle way. "I just couldn't help but notice—you're staring at me." She shook her head, cheeks tinged with pink, and glanced down at her nearly empty glass of gelato.

Dean felt his own face heat up. He hadn't noticed he'd been doing it, but he had in fact been staring at her all night. It wasn't something he could control. Everything about her was magnetic, sucking him in until he couldn't let go.

He insisted on driving her home once the last of the gelato had been scraped from their dishes. Nico's wasn't far from her house, so she'd walked there before. But now that it was time to leave, Dean didn't want to spend any more time away from her than he had to.

He pulled the Impala up next to her house, letting the engine idle as they both sat there in complete silence. Y/N made no attempts to get out of the car.

"I'm not tired," she finally said. "Are you?"

"No," he said quickly, relieved that she had spoken first. "Do you want to just—"

She nodded. Dean pulled his keys from the ignition and turned in his seat so he was facing her. She pulled her legs up on the passenger's seat beside her.

"What do you want to talk about?" She asked.

Dean thought about it for a moment. "Tell me about your family. You found out everything about mine from Chuck's books, but I don't know anything about your past."

She let out a breathless laugh and traced circles on the leather of the seat. Those were artist's hands, Dean thought. Those were not the hands of a fighter, of a hunter. She could create masterpieces. But then he looked into her eyes again, and he couldn't deny the spark he saw there, the beginnings of a flame ready to ignite at the earliest sign of adventure. Sam had been right about her making a good hunter. She was definitely born with the urge that they had been born with. She'd make a good fit.

"There's not much to tell there," she admitted. "It's really boring."

"Everyone always says that. Come on, where'd you come from?"

She shrugged, tossing her hands in the air carelessly. "Mom and Dad were born and raised here, just like me. I went to school, I did my homework, I helped around the house, I ran the hardware store with my dad on my days off, I cooked dinner with mom. I was a lonely, only child with a completely average life." She paused for a long time, the same kind of distant hesitation everyone got before they talked about something unpleasant. "That's probably why I started drinking. It was my own sad attempt at shaking things up. I wasn't the wisest seventeen-year-old."

Dean wanted to say something, but he didn't know what in the world he could possibly say, so Y/N continued.

"It got pretty bad. I drank at parties. I drank when I was home alone. I drank when Mom and Dad were asleep. I drank while I drove. I got into a car accident one night, fractured tons of bones, got a concussion. It was pretty bad. My parents were freaking out. They thought I was going to die. But I pulled through and was sent to AA. Twelve years sober." She smiled, though all the light that had been in her eyes before was gone. "There, that's my interesting childhood story for the night. I was a rebellious teenager and probably screwed up my liver because of it. Fascinating stuff, right?"

"I can't tell you how much I'd give to have that story to tell people rather than the one I have now," Dean said.

Y/N directed her sad smile to Dean, now, sympathy written all over her face in big block letters with lots of red ink. He could read her like a book, but not because he was good at figuring people out, but because she was happily opening herself up to him. She begged him to turn the pages. _Read me._ _Know me._

 _Kiss me._

Dean leaned forward a few inches, and Y/N reciprocated. Dean's lips met her in an explosion of fireworks and flames and great big bolts of lightning. Two halves made a whole. Two broken pieces glued back together again. The puzzle formed a picture. They opened themselves up to each other. Y/N let Dean read her story. Dean let her hear his song. They started a new chapter, the first track of a new album, forging a road that could be traveled together.

When Y/N finally pulled away, she looked into Dean's eyes, that magnetic pull ever stronger. "Come get me tomorrow before you leave."

Dean nodded. "I'll be there."

He waited until she went inside to drive away. His right hand drifted up to his lips and stayed there the whole ride back to the motel. He looked in the rearview mirror before getting out.

He always thought the backseat looked a little lonely.


	10. Chapter 10

**Y/N**

There was something about his eyes. It felt so cliché to say it, but it was true. There was something about the way he looked at me that made me want to do something crazy.

Although really, what was crazier than running off with two guys I barely knew to fight monsters?

I supposed saving a person from a vengeful spirit was one way to form a bond with someone, but that's not what sealed the deal. I swear, it was his eyes. It was everything: it was the way he treated me as his equal, the way he listened, his thoughtfulness, and his eyes.

"Fan-fiction green," they'd been described by Supernatural fans. Apparently Carver Edlund's Dean had eyes just as amazing as my Dean did.

I snorted out loud. _My Dean._ How easily Id claimed him as my own.

The now familiar rumble of the Impala's engine alerted me to their presence. I took one last look around the house, drinking in every detail. _Just in case,_ I couldn't help but think. But that was ridiculous. I'd come back, of course I'd come back. It's not like I was leaving forever.

 _You don't just leave the life._ Dean had said it so many times in the books, and his voice came to me now. His husky, smoky voice warning me that if I left, this could be it.

But apparently I didn't care if this was it. What life was this? No friends, no family, a crappy job with an even crappier house. My landlord was a jerk and had been threatening to evict me for months now after I'd been late with the payments so many times. It'd just make it easier for him if I left now.

I dragged the two suitcases filled with my clothes and toiletries to the door, then pulled my duffel bag over my shoulder. I'd grabbed only the essentials, everything I'd need to be on the road and nothing more. Everything else in the house I could live without. I'd been meaning to get rid of some of the junk, anyway.

Someone knocked on the door. I opened it, grinning before I even saw Dean's face. He smiled back, his body slightly hunched over so we were closer together in height. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, apparently content to just look at me.

"Hey," I said brightly, relieved that he hadn't changed his mind. "We're better coordinated this time."

He chuckled. "Just took a little practice, I guess. That all your stuff?"

"Yup." I attempted to hold the door open and pull the suitcases outside at the same time, but ended up tripping over the welcome mat, stumbling into Dean. He gripped my elbow to steady me, and I noticed then that Sam was watching the two of us. His expression was serious, but not so much skeptical or annoyed as he was curious and observant.

"Your brother's staring," I said, smirking up at Dean.

His face had been tinged a perpetual pink since I'd opened the door. It could've been from the early March chill, but somehow I knew it was unrelated.

"Let him stare," he said, and swooped down without warning to kiss me.

I let myself melt into his touch, one hand drifting to grip the side of his flannel shirt for support, the other holding tight to my suitcase. It didn't last long, but it warmed me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I bit my lower lip to keep from grinning any wider than I already was.

"You're sure?" Dean whispered, taking my hand in his own.

I nodded. "I've never been more positive."

He loaded the larger of the two suitcases into the trunk and stuffed the smaller one beside me in the back seat. He rifled through my duffel bag at the hunting supplies I'd collected, nodding with satisfaction.

"You really did your research, he said. "I'm impressed. Of course, there's still a ton to learn. And we'll have to get you some better weapons. The knives are good, though they could be sharpened. We have a ton of spare guns and flasks of holy water back at the bunker. We can teach you how to draw devil's traps, and I'm sure Cas would be more than willing to show you some angel sigils—"

"So Cas is okay then?" I interrupted him. "Last I read, Metatron took his grace."

"Yeah, Cas is fine," he tried to reassured me, his smile tight-lipped an unconvincing. "He's using someone else's grace right now, so that buys him some time. What do you know about exorcisms?"

"I haven't memorized it yet, if that's what you mean."

"We'll work on that. For now we can record one on your phone. You have a phone, right?"

I nodded and pulled my cell phone from my pocket.

"Great. We'll get you added to our contacts. Come on, let's get going."

"Welcome back, Y/N," Sam said, grinning at me in the rearview mirror. He seemed truly pleased to see me in the backseat of the car. It was nice, how easily they'd welcome me into their lives, their home. I knew from the books how choosy Dean was about the people who got to ride in the Impala, and the fact that he'd picked me made my heart pound harder than ever. "I hear you're a hunter now?"

"Not quite," I said uncertainly. "But I'm getting there. I think Dean's already planning some sort of training regimen."

"It'll be fun," Dean said, sliding into the driver's seat. He revved the engine and pulled out of the driveway. I had to force myself to stare straight ahead, focus on his shoulders or his hair, so I wouldn't look back. "I haven't properly trained anyone in forever. I mean, sure, Cas and Charlie needed a little help sometimes, but they weren't exactly starting from scratch."

"We should add you to our phones," Sam said. "Having your emergency contacts on speed dial is a necessity when you're a hunter."

I gave them my phone numbers, and they gave me theirs. I put them both on speed dial, along with Cas and Charlie, who they assured me I'd be working with soon enough.

"I'm really excited," I said, a little sheepishly. "Thanks for bringing me along."

"Our pleasure," Dean said softly. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and grinned. "It'll be nice to have someone else in the bunker."

That was the beginning. The first chapter of a new story. A wonderful story.


	11. Chapter 11

**Dean**

"On your left!" Charlie shouted.

Dean ducked just in time, a knife whizzing by his head and clattering against the wall of the basement. He darted forward, trying his best to slice at the vampire who had thrown it, but missed. Vamps were fast, and she was no different.

He bumped into Sam, and the two brothers pressed their backs against each other, falling into a familiar rhythm. Sam managed to hack one vampire head clean off its shoulders. Dean took one down right before she got a chance to sink her teeth into his skin.

"Y/N," came Cas' warning tone, somewhere off to Dean's right.

"I see him," she muttered, and swung violently at the oncoming vampire. He went down like a broken Lego tower.

She was a natural, Y/N, and Dean had to force himself not to get distracted by her for too long during hunts. It had only taken a couple weeks of training for her to learn their styles and fit herself right into their routine, like a missing puzzle piece. Charlie and Cas had quickly welcomed her into the family. Charlie was happy to have another girl around, latching onto her like she was her long-lost twin. Cas had become intensely protective of her, never leaving her side for more than a few seconds during a case.

Y/N caught him staring, and winked. Dean felt his heart skip a beat as he beamed at her. How did she manage to look so good all the time? Even now, covered in muck and blood, tank top fraying, the knees of her jeggings ripped wide open, face bruised from the view vamps that had gotten to her, she was gorgeous. Absolutely freaking beautiful, and Dean had to work hard to tear his eyes away.

His staring cost him. One of the vampires managed to tackle him from behind, her long nails digging into his arms as she pinned him to the floor. He struggled against her, knife lying uselessly out of reach. He had enough fight in him to keep her fangs away, but not enough to push her off.

Luckily, Y/N had seen and rushed the vamp, kicking her hard with the heel of her boot. Dean shoved her in one direction, using his leverage to slide out from beneath her grip. He grabbed his blade to finish her, but Y/N had already taken care of it.

"A little slow on the uptake today, eh, Winchester?" Y/N teased him, bumping his shoulder with hers. They were almost level with each other, her in boots with a large enough heel to make a noticeable difference. Just another way she'd proved her worth to them. She was able to hunt just as well with heels. Even Charlie hadn't managed such a feat.

"I got half an hour of sleep last night," Dean said defensively. "While I was reading up on the local disappearances, _you_ were getting your beauty rest."

Y/N made a _pfft_ noise. "Please. You were dozing in your chair while Sam did all the work."

"You guys, get a room," Charlie joked, pretending to be disgusted by their playful banter. "We're going to do one last sweep of the house. You coming?"

Y/N and Dean followed the other three up the basement steps, blinking against the sun streaming through the windows. It took a few minutes for Dean to adjust to the sudden brightness, and he stumbled into Y/N.

"Careful," she said, gripping his elbow. "Seriously, are you feeling okay?"

"Shut up," he muttered, nudging her with his elbow.

"We will send you to the car if you two don't stop flirting," Sam warned them. "That was the deal, remember? No mush on the job."

"This isn't mush, this is war," Dean protested. "She's insulting my hunting abilities."

"That's because you're off your game," Charlie piped up, unhelpfully, from down the hall. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean grumbled, looking away so Charlie's grin wouldn't cause him to break into one of his own. Her smiles were almost as infectious as Y/N's.

But the truth was, Dean _was_ off his game. He'd been off his game ever since Y/N had waltzed into his life and demanded a spot in the backseat. Every brush they shared was electric, every smile a spark, every kiss a roaring flame. She was fire and he was burning. It was hard to focus on anything but that.

"Come on," Y/N whispered, falling back to let the other three walk ahead of them. She grabbed Dean's shirt, tugging him down a different hallway.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, not really caring what the answer was.

She waggled her eyebrows at him, lips quirked up enough to make her dimples show. He let her lead him farther away from the group, gazing into the endless depths of her eyes. Down and down he fell into the blue, no parachute or safety net to save him now. He was all in.

"What—" Dean started when she pulled him into a dusty study.

She shrugged, still holding his hands. "They said to get a room."

Dean wasn't sure who initiated the kiss. They both collided into each other, the magnetic pull he'd always felt so much stronger. There was a strange buzzing in his ears, a blissful fogginess of ignorance as he lost himself in her. Nothing else mattered right then. He didn't even care about the pounding of his aching head, the shooting pain in his sliced leg, the bruises on his knuckles. They were nothing more than minor distractions he could push away when he was touching her.

Y/N pulled away, just enough so he could still feel her warm breath on his face.

"What is it?" He murmured, stroking her damp hair. It'd been raining outside before they came in, and she was still wet.

"You're bleeding," she whispered, lifted her hand, dragging her thumb across his cheek. She winced when he winced, hissing through her teeth. "Sorry."

"'S okay," he assured her. "Just a scratch. No big deal. My leg is worse."

Her eyes widened when she noticed the dark stain on his jeans, slowly spreading. He remembered when she'd worn that exact same expression so many moons ago in the graveyard of Starryedge, gaping at his chest wound. She'd been so surprised that he'd dismissed his injuries so easily. Surely she was used to it by now, he thought, but she was protective, as usual.

"We need to get that patched up," she said.

"I'm fine," Dean said. "Let's just finish checking the house, all right?"

But he may as well have been speaking in Chinese for all the attention she gave him. She dragged him outside, ordering him to sit down on the trunk of the Impala while she fished the fished the first aid kit from under the passenger's seat.

"Y/N, you have to stop fussing over me like this," was Dean's half-hearted attempt at getting her to listen. "I've been on hundreds of hunts in my life, maybe thousands. I can handle a little cut."

"Dean Winchester, you've just been sliced open by a vampire. I think your girlfriend is allowed to stitch you shut."

He smirked, lifting the leg of his pants obediently while she poured alcohol over the wound. "So you're my girlfriend now, huh?"

"You've only now realized that?" She said sarcastically.

He shrugged. "You never said it before."

"Not out loud," she mumbled. "But there are some things that don't need to be said. Not with words."

Dean brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting his hand linger against her cheek. She pretended not to notice, though he felt her skin burn hot.

"This is going to hurt," she said.

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"Ready?"

Dean nodded. He gritted his teeth as she pulled the needle, her movements quick and precise. He held very still and tried not to let on that he was in pain. It would be over in no time, it always was.

"There." She swiped the needle clean with a cotton ball of alcohol, looking up at Dean with satisfaction on her face. "Try not to bust it open again, okay?"

"Y/N." He caught her hand before she could walk away, gently leading her back so she was standing in front of him again. He had all these things to say, but the words he could hear so clearly in his head wouldn't find their way to his lips. He wanted so badly to be able to speak them, express himself as easily as Y/N or Sam or Charlie could, but he wasn't like that. He didn't know how to be an artist. He didn't know how to translate thoughts into words.

"You're staring at me again," she whispered.

"What do you mean again?" Dean asked.

She shook her head a little, gentle so her hair barely moved, only a slight motion of the head. Her eyes searched his for something, but he wasn't sure what. "Back at the restaurant, for our first date. You were staring then, too."

He couldn't believe she'd remembered. He'd thought for sure he hadn't been so obvious, but then again, she was a hunter. Hunters were trained to look for little details, small clues, any sign that could lead to the answer to the mystery.

When he didn't speak, she continued, "Back then, I thought maybe—maybe you were trying to say something, but you didn't know how. Then I thought I was crazy. I mean, it was nuts, I wasn't thinking straight."

"What did you think I was trying to say?" Dean could barely get the simple sentence out of his mouth. His heart was pounding so hard, he couldn't get a decent breath in.

She bit her lip and glanced down, hands slick with sweat in his. "I thought—I thought you were—no, I shouldn't say this."

He squeezed her hands, gently, but firm enough to tell her that she could go on.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him again. "I thought there was something in your eyes. I thought you were in love with me."

He could see the worry and the doubt etched upon her every feature, from her wide eyes to her lower lip caught between her teeth to the slight tremble of her hands. He leaned forward so their foreheads were pressed up against each other.

"You weren't wrong," he murmured. "I loved you then, I love you now."

She began to shake in earnest now. She gave a hearty sniff, a fat tear trickling down her dirt-stained face, carving a path that twisted and curved.

"You know," she said, voice wobbling. "I really believe you're the greatest thing to ever happen to me."

Dean's lips twitched, corners quirking up into the very same smile he'd smiled at the diner all those months back. It seemed like decades ago. "Right back at you, kid."

They were still kissing when the others came out. They didn't notice until there was a collective groan and Sam said, "Seriously, you guys, do we need to separate you two?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Y/N**

Traveling with the Winchesters was like falling asleep after a really bad day and having the best dreams. I found a great quote by Dr. Seuss that I scribbled down and left for Dean in his hunting bag: "You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." That's what being with Dean was. I tossed and turned every night, every inch of my body tingling with energy and anticipation of the next day, the next hunt.

And it wasn't just Dean, it was everyone. It was belonging, it was being a misfit then finding your place in a group full of them. It was knowing that you had a place in the bed next to the man you loved, a seat in the back of the car reserved for you, an ongoing conversation with your family. It was having nothing but the open road ahead of you. It was adventure and laughter and passion and love. It was Sam's hugs, Charlie's bad puns, Cas' comfort, Dean's kisses. It was all of it and it was mine.

My mind used to wander back to Starryedge and to the diner for the first few weeks on the road. But after realizing that there was no going back, that there was nothing worth going back _for_ , the details of the town started to blur in my mind. I couldn't remember what Hadley looked like anymore, couldn't recall what color my bathroom had been painted. Then I realized I didn't care.

The bunker, the Impala, Dean, this was my home now. This is right where I wanted to be.

No matter how many times I kicked Dean's butt when we practiced in the training room of the bunker, he still insisted on keeping me in his sights at all times during cases. Whether I was posing as FBI or doing research at the library, he had to be right by my side. When he'd broken his ankle on a hunt and had to stay behind while Sam and I took a case a few hours away, I couldn't help but smirk at the glare on his face. It probably didn't help that I had to be Sam's date to a dance in order to blend in.

But the best moments were when we were alone. When it was just the two of us, in the dark, finding light in each other's eyes. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but Dean's eyes were so much more. When I gazed into his bright green irises, I could see my past, my future, all of it with Dean. And it was wonderful.

Weeks passed. Dean only brought up Starryedge once in conversation, which I quickly shot down, insisting that I was never going back there. Weeks turned into months, months turned into years. The guest bedroom, which the boys had politely asked me to refrain from decorating when I first arrived, was now painted lilac and plastered with posters. It was my room. The bookshelves were crammed with different adventure stories, a beautiful, hardback, _Lord of the Rings_ set from Charlie sitting front and center.

Christmas had passed twice in the time I'd known them. The first one we missed due to being on a hunt and a graceless Cas lying in the hospital with a concussion. Nobody slept that night. The second one I'd insisted on spending at home, in the bunker, with Charlie and Cas. We exchanged presents. We wore the ugly Christmas sweaters I'd bought everyone. We laughed. We drank a little bit of eggnog with a lot of vodka, though I rejected every offer of alcohol. I wasn't about to ruin a fourteen-year streak of soberness, especially after what had happened the last time I was drunk and stupid.

In early January, my birthday came and went, barely remembered as Sam, Dean, and I were in the middle of a case. Dean gave me a kiss and mumbled, "Happy birthday" against my lips in the morning, grinning. Sam surprised me by bringing a store-bought birthday cake to the motel room. Charlie sent an e-mail. Cas texted, adding a dozen different emoticons, including one of a present, a slice of cake, confetti, balloons, and a duck. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of it, yet.

The case was simple, though, so after a quick salt and burn, we were back to the bunker before eight. We went to our rooms to unpack our things. I was putting my clothes away when Dean knocked on the doorframe.

"Hey," I said, smiling at him. He hadn't shaved for a couple days, so the golden stubble was coming in thicker than usual. "What's up?"

Dean shrugged, though he didn't meet my eyes. There was something he wasn't telling me, but I didn't push it. He was always a little more down in the wintertime. Bad memories of his past, I guess, though November was the worst.

"Nothing," he said. "I just feel bad. We didn't really celebrate your birthday this year."

"Don't feel bad," I reassured him. "Your birthday gets pushed off a lot, too. And Sam's. I knew what I was signing up for when I got in the car that day. I don't expect to have a huge party every year."

"Still," Dean said, shrugging again. "I want to do something. For you. Can you meet me at the car?"

"Sure." I pulled on my leather jacket, a birthday present from Dean last year. It made me feel truly badass when I looked at myself in the mirror, like one of the gang. "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. Be out in five minutes."

He left, giving me a little time to touch up my makeup and run a brush through my hair. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, examining the faint scars on my face. I'd had a few nasty cuts while on the job, and the silver lines never completely faded away. The scars told my story, though, told everyone that I'd gotten out of the town I'd lived in all my life for something exciting, something better. It told everyone, _this is me. This is my life, and I love it._

Then the most prominent feature of all, the smile that seemed to be perpetually carved into my face. It said, _I am in love._

Dean was leaning against the Impala when I stepped outside, looking about ten years younger; boyish smirk, ruffled hair, cool car, leather jacket. He opened the passenger side door for me, letting me slide in before taking his own seat and starting the engine.

"Should I have brought anything?" I asked him as we backed out of the driveway.

"Just yourself," he said distractedly, still looking at anything but my face.

We drove for a long time, passing twenty-four hour grocery stores, gas stations, fast food establishments. He didn't say a word, didn't even put on his music. I resisted the urge to ask if everything was okay, because I knew if I did, he was give me a clipped, "I'm fine," and shut down completely. If I let him come to terms with whatever was happening on his own, he'd eventually tell me and we'd work it out together. Everything always turned out okay if we gave it time.

"We're here." Dean pulled off to the side of the road and killed the engine. Silence fell, broken only by the hum of a few crickets braving the cold.

"Dean?" I said uncertainly. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

He gave a small smile, looking out at the dead cornfields flanking us. "Exactly."

We both got out of the car. He looked somewhere just below my eyes when he took my hand and led me to the hood of the Impala, helping me up so we could both sit on top of it.

"Look up," he whispered.

I let out a little gasp. The navy blue of the sky was almost impossible to see. What was once just a sprinkle of stars, a small moon to decorate the dark canvas, was now a sheet of spotted silver. Stars upon stars upon stars surrounded us. The infinite condensed itself to a blanket that tucked us in, filling us with warmth and possibilities.

"It's hard to see the constellations," Dean said apologetically. "But it's still—"

"It's beautiful," I interrupted him. "I've never seen so many stars."

"I thought you'd like it." His tone softened, low, smooth, and warm, like a sweet mocha drink. I felt his gaze upon me, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sky, the endless sky.

"Are you cold?" He asked, upon seeing me shiver.

I nodded, and he pulled a thick blanket from the trunk, along with a beer for him and a coke for me.

He threw the blanket over the both of us, for once not protesting when I tucked my feet up on the car. We pressed our bodies together for warmth, clinking our bottles together.

"Happy birthday, Y/N," he whispered.

I kissed him in response, long and slow, under all those stars. The seemed to act as a kind of bubble, a form of protection from the outside world. In this silver, speckled dome, only we existed. Everyone else, all of our troubles, melted away into the breeze, into the soft music made by the rustling corn stalks.

"Was it a good birthday?" He asked when we broke apart, putting his arm around me.

I nodded against his shoulder. "A wonderful birthday. Even if my name was misspelled on the cake."

"Your name was misspelled?" Dean said in incredulity.

"Last I checked, that 'e' was extra."

He laughed, a loud, rich sound that made the bubbles in my stomach extra fizzy. Even after two years, we'd managed to simultaneously keep that first date tingle alive and fall into a comfortable rhythm. We were strangers and best friends. But we were the best possible combination of both.

I felt him lean in before I saw him, felt the tickle of his stubble against my cheek. "I love you," he murmured into my ear.

"I know," I whispered back.

He pulled away a little bit, matching my wide grin with one of his own. "Did you just quote 'Star Wars' at me?"

"It's possible."

He laughed again, then sat up, staring at the waxing moon. The full would be upon us soon, and with the full moon came werewolf attacks. It wouldn't be long before we were out on the road again.

"What is it?" I asked him, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I cringed as I sat up, dreading his typical Dean response. "Nothing." "I'm fine." "Don't worry about it."

But instead, he said, "I'm scared."

This answer left me speechless for several seconds. I watched him fiddle with the half-empty beer bottle, his head dropping to face the hood of the Impala, face darkening. I could almost feel his pounding heart.

"Scared of what?" I asked him, so wanting to reach out and touch him, to comfort him, but too confused to know how. Dean Winchester admit that he was afraid? His fear scared me more than any monster could.

His lips twitched into an almost smile. "Of you," he finally said. "Of what you do to me. I'm terrified, actually. I haven't felt like myself in years, but—I don't mind it. It's almost like I pretended to be something I wasn't for so long, I forgot it was all an act. I can't remember the last time I've felt so—"

He broke off, looking at me in the eyes for the first time that night. His gaze pierced me to my very soul, leaving me breathless. "I have a present for you."

It took me a few seconds to realize what he was talking about. "Oh, you didn't have to—"

"No, I wanted to," he insisted, setting his beer down on the bumpy pavement of the road. He dug in his pocket for something. "But I can't exchange it, so I hope you like it."  
"I'm sure I will," I assured him, setting aside my own bottle so I could take the package from Dean.

It was small, square, and simple, tied up with brown paper and string. I gave him a curious look before tugging one end of the string to untie it and unwrapping the paper.

People always talk about how their heart speeds up when they're nervous or excited, but mine slowed way down, pounding heavily but steadily, a strong thudding rhythm. _Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump._

It was a tiny velvet box, as deep a blue as the almost-black sky. I noticed the hinge, indicating where to open it, but I couldn't bring myself to do anything but stare.

"Go on," Dean prompted me, sounding as breathless as I felt.

 _Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump._

I could hardly feel my fingers as I pried it open.

And there it was. Small and shining like one of the stars in the sky above us. A single diamond on a thin, golden band. A ring.

"Dean," I whispered. Only his name came out. My brain was a total blank to any other words available to me.

Dean slid off the hood of the Impala, turning to face me, bending down on one knee. Tears sprung in my eyes, a breathy laugh escaping from my lips. I could barely see him now.

He cleared his throat, then, as strong as he could manage, said, "Y/N, will you marry me?"

There wasn't anything to think about, nothing to say, no hesitation necessary. Somewhere, tucked away in the corner of my mind, the answer had always been there.

"Yes," I laughed, falling into him and wrapping my arms around his neck. "Oh my god, yes!"

He laughed back, his body melting into mine in relief, the perfect fit. He squeezed me so tightly, I couldn't draw in a single breath, but it didn't matter. He kissed me hard, enough life for the both of us. All I could see was stars and night and green eyes. It was several minutes later before he actually slid the ring on my finger.

"Thank god it fits," he sighed when I stretched out my hand for the both of us to see.

"It's perfect." I leaned into him, placing another kiss on his scratchy cheek. "Thank you."

The ride home was a different kind of silence, a shared one. We both had so many things to say to each other, but all we could manage a smile and a gentle squeezing of each other's hands, interlocking our fingers in between our car seats. Some things didn't need to be said. Not with words.


	13. Chapter 13

**Dean**

Dean called everyone into the kitchen the next day, disguising his true intentions behind the promise of greasy, sizzling bacon and fried eggs with plump yolks. He tried to focus on the hot pan in front of him, but it was hard not to look at Y/N instead, her sneaking grins at him every few seconds and winking.

Sam, Cas, and Charlie all got there about the same time, taking their seats around the table. Sam ruffled Y/N's hair before he sat down across from her, and Dean had to turn away to hide his wide smile. She was already part of the family, this would just make it official.

"What brought this on?" Sam asked as Dean set a full plate in front of him. He looked confused, but happily so, half-smiling up at Dean with furrowed eyebrows. "You haven't cooked in weeks.

Dean shrugged non-chalantly, getting himself a plate once everyone else had been served. He sat down next to Y/N and reached for her hand under the table. Apparently she'd been thinking the same thing, because she found his immediately and squeezed, the diamond of her ring rubbing up against his callused skin.

"Just felt like an eggs and bacon kinda day," he said. "But Y/N and I have something to tell you."

The scraping of silverware on plates stopped, everyone looking up at them. Cas' fork hung in the air between the table and his mouth, steaming egg drooping off the end of it.

"You want to say it?" Dean murmured to Y/N, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

She nodded, her lips pressed together the same way they always were when she tried to stop herself from beaming. She gave his hand another squeeze and gently pulled hers away from his, resting it on the table for the others to see. Here, under the bright spotlight of the kitchen, the diamond glittered like a thousand suns.

"We're getting married."

Charlie leaped from her chair with a squeal, knocking it over, and was at Y/N's side in an instant. She threw her arms around her, saying, "I knew it! I knew it! I shipped you guys from the start!"

Dean laughed at the two of them until he felt Sam's gaze too strongly to ignore. He looked hesitantly at his little brother, but though his smile was small, his eyes were bright and wet. "Congratulations," he said quietly. "I can't think of a better match than you two."

"Thanks man." Dean's voice was suddenly tight and hoarse as he clapped Sam's shoulder, his throat constricted.

He was getting married. He was getting married to the most beautiful woman in the world. She would be Mrs. Winchester. They would be the start of a whole new kind of family, something rich and magical. His mind filled with images of him flipping burgers on the grill in the backyard of a suburban house while Y/N chased a little boy or girl in the grass. Daydreams of her holding up a child to look outside at the starry sky in search of Rudolph as Dean stuffed the stockings. His imagination showed him years of watching their kid grow up in front of their eyes as they grew older together, sitting by the fire with a book and a blanket, the two of them together in a happy, peaceful silence.

He pulled himself out of it just as Y/N caught his eye and beamed at him for the first time that morning. Her eyes were full of enough life to power the earth, bright and twinkling and filling him with the spark of a match struck. Soon his insides were a blazing fire.

"If I'm not mistaken," Cas spoke for the first time, carefully setting down his fork. "At human weddings, there is someone called an officiant, correct?"

"Yes, Cas," Y/N said, one arm still around Charlie, who'd taken the seat next to her. "They're the ones who make the marriage happen."

He nodded slowly. "I see. And this person—they are a religious leader?"

"Usually, yeah." Dean couldn't help but notice that she hadn't stopped twisting the ring around her finger since Charlie had pulled away. It sent a surge of energy through him. "Most of the time they're priests or ministers."

He nodded again, staring intently at the table as he mulled this over, the wrinkled brow and slightly parted lips showing his confusion. "Then if I may, could I suggest myself as your . . . officiant? I do have a closer connection to God than any minister could ever have."

Dean laughed. "Sure, Cas," he said, smirking. "I'd be happy to have you as our officiant."

"Well as long as we're making wedding plans," Y/N said, glancing at Dean before turning back to Charlie. "Charlie, would you be my maid of honor?"

Charlie squealed again and said something in such a high-pitched voice, Dean couldn't make out what it was. She almost tackled Y/N in her rush to hug her. Dean shook his head a little at the two of them, giggling and speaking at the same time about the wedding. He looked back at Sam.

"Sam," he started quietly. "Would you—"

"Yes," Sam said, before Dean had even finished.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask."

"Yes," he said again. "You don't have to ask."

Dean threw his hands up in the air and said, "Hey, I won't argue you agreeing to be our indentured servant for the forseeable future."

Sam rolled his eyes, then said, "Dean, seriously, I'd be honored."

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, his eyes prickling. "Thanks, Sammy."


	14. Chapter 14

**Y/N**

The wedding was small. There weren't many people Dean and I wanted to invite besides Sam, Cas, and Charlie—who were all already part of the wedding anyway—but Jody came with Alex. And Garth and his wife, and even Claire. Everyone looked stunning, sparkling and blood-free, genuine smiles on their faces. I couldn't remember the last time everyone had looked so happy.

The whole time I was getting ready with Charlie's help, walking down the aisle, standing barely a foot away from Dean dressed in a tux with his bright green eyes filled with tears, I was reminded of that quote from "Lilo and Stitch." The one about family that Stitch says: "This is my family. I found it all on my own. It's little and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good." That was how I felt in that moment. That was how I'd felt all along.

The vows, the kiss—quickly followed by more squeals from Charlie and a wolf whistle from Garth—, walking away from the park bathed in sunshine and endless summer days, passed by in the blink of an eye. The others knew better then to write anything on the Impala, but they could resist putting up a sign in the back window that said, "Just Married!" and a few streamers off the back of the car.

When we drove back to the bunker—me beaming and rubbing my thumb across the back of his hand, Dean smiling softly—and got out of the car, Dean scooped me up. I squealed and clung to him so I wouldn't fall, but his strong arms held me steady.

"What are you doing?" I giggled, voice trailing off at the end as I stared up at him, hand cupping his cheek. I traced my fingers along the side of his face, marvelling at just how much of the universe lived in his eyes. I saw a thousand stars in a thousand galaxies, bright and endless and waiting to be explored. His gaze locked onto me, freezing me in place.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Winchester," he whispered.

"I've always been home," I whispered back.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, pulling me closer against him. My fingers stopped their tracing, tangling in his hair instead. I could see him even with my eyes closed, the feel of him painting the perfect picture. A hint of stubble tickling my smooth skin, his breath mingling with mine, his arms wrapped around me and keeping me warm like a roaring fire at Christmastime.

When he pulled away, I felt like I was waking up from a wonderful dream, half-asleep in a golden haze at eleven a.m. with nothing but a day of lying in bed ahead of me. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared as he smiled.

"I'm glad you saved us that night," he murmured.

"Well I'm glad you didn't stand me up." I nuzzled my face against his neck as he carried me inside and down the steps.

"I'd have to be stupid to stand you up."

I flushed and grinned against his skin at his words, remembering how he'd said almost those exact same words to me on the first day we met. It was like no time had passed at all, yet we'd spent eternity together all at once.

"I love you," he said as he laid me down on the bed.

I smiled, feeling like pure sunshine was radiating from every cell in our bodies, and cupped his cheek. "I love you, too."


	15. Chapter 15

**Dean**

It was three weeks after they'd gotten back from the honeymoon. Dean was sitting on their bed, checking his e-mail on his laptop. Y/N was in the bathroom, taking a little longer to get ready than usual. He'd been about to call out to her to make sure everything was okay when she opened the door.

Her eyes had been wide and shiny. Her mouth had been halfway open with unspoken words. Her hands had been shaking as she held the stick so he could see.

The strip had been pink.

 **A/N:** I can't thank all of you lovely readers enough! I'm so glad you like what I have to say. :) Reviews are always much appreciated!


	16. Chapter 16

**Y/N**

I gasped and sat up straight in bed, holding my protruding belly with wide eyes. My heartbeat quickened, but I relaxed a little bit as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe it had just been a dream. I'd had quite a few baby-related dreams in the about five months since Dean and I had gotten the news that we were going to be Mommy and Daddy. But this one felt different. This one felt real.

And there it was again. Just a quick jolt, but unmistakably solid and there.

"Dean," I said in an urgent whisper so as not to wake up Sam in the next room over or alert Cas to the possibility that something was wrong. He'd already barged in during my morning sickness stage in a panic, which wasn't exactly the way I'd planned on telling him. "Dean, wake up." I shook his shoulder.

That got his attention, and he jerked against the blankets with a startled jump and scrambled to sit up, looking up at me. "What? What is it, is something wrong?"

"No, everything's okay." I grinned ear to ear at him in the darkness, taking his hand and gently guiding it to my stomach, rubbing my thumb over his wedding ring. "The baby's kicking."

His eyebrows raised, green eyes twinkling as a small smile quirked his lips up. "Really?" Voice breathless, he spread his fingers to cover more of my stomach.

"He's done it twice now, I'm sure he'll do it again. Just wait."

And a few seconds later in the buzzing silence, he kicked again, hard against Dean's hand. Dean laughed softly, shaking his head as if he just couldn't believe it.

"You're going to be so strong, just like your Mommy," Dean whispered, forehead resting against my stomach.

"Dean," I murmured back, eyebrows furrowing. "We talked about this, I thought we both agreed that—"

"Not as a hunter." He straightened up to look at me, response quick and firm. "Just—strong in other ways. As a human being in general. He'll have your confidence, I'm sure of it."

Blushing, I rubbed my hand up and down my stomach, but the little boy growing inside me didn't kick again. "What makes you say that?"

"Babies always the get the best of both parents, so he'll get all the things that attracted me to you in the first place," he said with a shrug, as if it were obvious. "Confidence is one of them."  
"Oh yeah?" I said with a teasing smirk, moving so I could rest my head on his shoulder. "What are the other things?"

"Your winning wit and sarcasm," Dean said, chuckling a little. "You didn't take anybody's crap, no matter what they said or did. If somebody blew you off, you made yourself heard. Your openness, your eyes—"

"My eyes?" I cut him off, words blurting from my mouth in surprise.

He glanced down at me, his own green eyes seeming to almost glow in the night. "Yeah, your eyes. That was the first thing that woke me up when you came over to our table. Two bright, _bright_ blue eyes that demand your attention. And, well, I paid attention and here I am."

Leaning up and holding his shoulder for support, I pressed my smiling lips to his gently, one of his hands still resting on my stomach. A couple seconds later, I pulled back just enough so I could hear his breathing.

"I'm glad you paid attention."

"I'm glad you let me."

I took his hand and gave it a squeeze before lying back down, trying to get comfortable, and Dean following suit.

"You know what our little boy's going to get from you?" I whispered.

"What?"

"Your kindness. No one in that town bothered to so much as learn my name before you came along."

"Well look what they missed out on."

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	17. Chapter 17

**Dean**

"Come on, Y/N, you can do it, just one more push." Dean squeezed her hand tight, though she already had him in a death grip.

"I can't," she gasped, laying her head back on the pillow, hair sticking to her face with sweat. "Dean, don't make me, this kid's gotta help things along a little. I can't do this by myself."

"Yes you can," he insisted, holding her hand in both of his now. He ignored the fact that she was probably bruising all of his fingers and focused on making eye contact. He raised his eyebrows. "Hey, listen to me, you're strong, you've got this."

"Come on, sweetie, one more push," one of the nurses encouraged her.

Y/N sat up again and let out another cry as she squeezed even tighter than Dean thought was even possible, and a few seconds later, smaller, higher-pitched cries joined her own.

"Oh my god," Dean gasped, catching only a glimpse of the tiny baby boy before the nurses took him away to clean up. He glanced back down at Y/N, who was still trying to catch her breath, and kissed her forehead. "Did you hear that? That was him, Y/N. That's our son."

Hand now limp in his, she scooted over on the bed and motioned for him to sit down next to her. "I want to hold him," she murmured, voice small and exhausted from the whole ordeal. "Where is he?"

"They're cleaning him off, don't worry, you'll see him soon." Dean traced the lines in her palm with his thumb. He glanced up when the nurses came back over, the tiny, pink, wriggling bundle of baby and blankets held in her arms. "See? There he is right now."

Y/N let out a soft "oh" of surprise as the baby was lowered to her, smile widening so he could see all of her teeth, and a few tears cascaded down her cheeks. "Hi, baby," she cooed. "Oh, look how handsome you are, just like your Daddy."

"Hey, little guy." Dean leaned closer to Y/N and the baby, thumb brushing against his tiny hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but found his throat had closed up too much since laying eyes on him to say much of anything, eyes stinging. Blinking, all the tears slipped out at once, and Dean wiped them away.

"Dean," Y/N whispered, looking up at him with those brilliant blue eyes of hers that held years of love and light and promise. "He's ours. Little Mason's all ours."

Unable to say anything back, Dean cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead, long and gentle, then pulled back to look down at Mason again. He squirmed and let out a soft whimpering noise, then blinked a few times as he opened his eyes. They were the same shade of ocean blue, flecks of gold hidden amongst the deep color and everything, as his mother's.

"What did I tell you?" Dean almost laughed, wiping another stray tear as it raced down the bridge of his nose. "Just like his mom." He glanced back down at her, swallowing hard so his voice didn't shake so much. "We're going to have to be careful with this one, all the ladies will be over him."

Y/N laughed, biting her lower lip as fat tears of her own dripped off her eyelashes, and she held Mason closer to her chest. "I just want to hold him forever."

"We've got time," Dean whispered, wrapping an arm around her and rubbing Mason's arm with his free hand. He could make his pointer finger and thumb touch even as he encircled Mason's wrist.

"I don't think I've ever been so happy."

"Me neither." Dean watched two teardrops splash on Mason's blanket, one from himself and one from Y/N, little splotches of wetness appearing there. "He's beautiful."

Y/N gave Dean's hand a gentle squeeze, and both of them fell silent for a long time, content to just watch their baby slowly fall back to sleep.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	18. Chapter 18

**Y/N**

"Dean," I groaned late into the night, rolling over just enough to hit him lightly when he didn't wake. He probably couldn't hear me over Mason's cries. "Go take care of your son." I waited a few seconds, then nudged him harder. "Dean."

He jerked awake, sitting straight up with a gasp and yawned, "I'm up, I'm up." He took a second to rub his eyes, then rolled out of bed to see what Mason needed. I cringed as I hoped he hadn't woken Sam up like he had the night before.

I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep, pulling the blankets up higher to block out Mason's whimpers and Dean's soft cooing in an attempt to calm him down. I gave up fifteen minutes later, the alarm clock on my nightstand informing me that it was 3:17, and got up, turning on the light. Maybe I could read for a little while until Dean got Mason back to bed.

That's when the cramping started, a stomachache bad enough to make it hard to focus on the words in front of me. I marked my page with a slip of paper and curled up in a ball on the chair, wrapping my arms around myself and going into the fetal position as I tried to get it to subside. I'd had bad cramps before, but these were worse. Maybe the pregnancy had screwed everything up so it was all wacky now.

I hadn't realized I was making noises of distress, eyes squeezed shut, until Dean's hurried footsteps across the room and his panicked voice snapped me back to the present. "Y/N? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

I opened my eyes again, blinking away the spots that appeared from how tightly I'd been keeping them closed. "I'm fine," I said in a strained voice, putting my hand over his to reassure him. "Bad cramps. I'll be—"

But I broke off and clapped a hand over my mouth, stumbling to the bathroom where I barely made it in time before I vomited into the toilet. I didn't even hear Dean come after me until I felt his strong hand on my back, rubbing in slow circles as he used the other to hold back my hair.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he whispered once I'd finished. "You're okay."

"Must've eaten something weird," I mumbled, eyes now half closed with exhaustion. I slumped against the toilet, Dean sitting down next to me and pulling me into his lap, and sighed. "Is Mason okay?"

"Mason's fine. I changed his diaper, sang him a lullaby, he was out like a light."

I smiled just slightly. "'Hey Jude'?"

Dean grinned and leaned down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. "You know me well."

"Yeah, well, I should. I married you."

"Do you think you can get to sleep now?"

I nodded and let him help me up, leaning against him as my legs turned to jelly and made it hard to walk. After a couple steps, Dean simply scooped me up and carried me to bed, tucking the blankets around me. He kissed my cheek and turned the light out, getting in the other side. He wrapped his arms around me, nuzzling my neck and sighing contentedly.

"You feel okay?" He whispered once we were settled.

"Still hurts," I mumbled. "But not too bad. I'm sure it'll be fine."

He didn't say anything to that, but I could feel him tense up slightly, knew that he was worrying like he always did. I reached back to squeeze his hand, rubbing my thumb over his wedding ring in an _I'm okay_ sort of gesture.

"Goodnight," was all he whispered back.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	19. Chapter 19

**Dean**

It was barely 5:30 a.m. almost a week later when Dean jerked awake to the sound of gagging and retching. Disoriented and uneasy on his feet from a sudden awakening, he stumbled to the bathroom where Y/N was hunched over the toilet again. He sighed, rubbing her back until she shakily reached for the flusher and lowered the lid.

"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely, hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. "Did I wake Mason up?"

"No, he's still sleeping," Dean murmured back, but his face was still set in a grim frown. He took her face in both of his hands and tilted her chin up so he could get a good look at her. She'd lost so much weight in the past couple weeks, though he couldn't figure out why as she'd been eating normally and there wasn't any added stress other than the baby. Her cheekbones stuck out more than usual on her hollow face, pajamas hanging more loosely on her body. Her skin and the whites of her eyes even had an aged paper sort of look, almost yellow-ish.

"I don't want to get you sick," she whispered, though he could tell it wasn't just for the baby's sake, but also from how weak she was.

"Y/N, I don't think this is a stomach bug. This is the sixth day in a row you've thrown up. I think we should get you to the hospital, make sure everything's okay."

"I'm sure it's just my body being out of whack after giving birth. My mom was sick for a little bit after I was born."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Sick like this?"

She bit her lip.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "We need to go, I don't want this getting any worse."

"But Mason—"

"Sam can watch Mason," he said firmly before she could argue anymore. "We'll be home soon, it shouldn't take too long."

Y/N didn't say anything else, just nodded weakly and reached up for Dean's help getting to her feet. He led her back over to the bed where she instantly curled up under the blankets, then scooped Mason into his arms, cradling him gently against his chest. The baby squirmed a little, letting out a soft fussing noise, but didn't wake. He let out a breath of relief. At least he wasn't crying on top of everything else.

Dean knocked as softly as he could on the door without waking up Mason, holding him close to himself and praying silently for Sam to answer. He'd never been as light of a sleeper as Dean was.

But thank God, the door opened a crack, enough space between the door and the doorframe that Dean could make out Sam's face. His forehead was wrinkled, eyes squinted with sleepy confusion. Dean's shoulders slumped forward, breathing a little easier, and Sam opened the door all of the way.

"Dean?" Sam said, just loud enough that Dean made a shushing movement and gestured to Mason. Sam let out a little "oh" and lowered his voice. "What's up? Why are you up so early?"

Dean opened his mouth, found that no sound came out, and closed it, shaking his head. He held Mason carefully out to him, and Sam took the child without question. Hoarsely, he whispered, "I have to take Y/N to the hospital. Can you watch him for a few hours?"

Sam's eyes widened at the news. "The _hospital_? Is she okay? What's going on?"

"Yeah, yeah, she—um—" Dean scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words in his foggy brain, but failing. The worry that sat in his stomach like lead crawled up to his chest, making his heart beat even faster, than his throat, which tightened up and made his eyes water. He could practically feel his skin paling to a sickly, ghostly color, and he knew there was no way he'd be able to hide anything from his little brother. His green eyes were bright, the very definition of "windows to the soul" as they showed everything he was feeling at this very moment. "Sam, I'm scared. I don't know what's wrong with her, I don't know how long it'll last, or if it can be fixed, or—I just don't know anything. I can't help, and she's in so much pain—" He broke off again, covering his face with shaking hands in an attempt to shut all of this down. Just because he was burdened with this didn't mean Sam had to be.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, voice incredibly soft and soothing, and he shifted Mason in his arms so he had one free arm to wrap around his brother and pulling him in for a hug filled with safety and comfort. "It'll be okay. Don't worry about a thing, Y/N's strong. She'll fight it. And we're all here for her _and_ you, whatever you guys need. Cas and I'll step up, Charlie and Jody, too, I'm sure. You have a support system. It'll all work out."

Feeling slightly steadier, though the heavy, sick feel still hadn't gone away, Dean nodded and pulled back. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump there and croaked out, "Thanks, Sammy," before giving a smile that felt like a grimace. He rubbed his thumb across Mason's wrist, taking another look at the peacefully sleeping baby, and left to go back to his room.

Y/N was full on shaking by the time Dean got back, but the blankets had been thrown aside, mostly lying on the floor now. She was drenched in sweat, eyes wide and even more yellowed, and watery. Her arms were wrapped tight around her stomach, and when she saw Dean come back in, a little whimper escaped her.

He felt something in him crack, the beginning of a fault line, trembling like a warning. He lifted her from the bed and held her much like he'd held Mason, her curled up against him, shudders coursing through her body so violently he felt it almost as if he were the one in pain. His own voice quivered as he whispered to her, carrying her from the Bunker and pressing a kiss against her sweaty forehead, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. We'll be there soon."

"D-Dean," she stuttered, voice strained. Her bony, yellow hands reached out to him, finally grasping his as tightly as she could. It was a weak grip at best.

"What is it?" Dean asked as he settled her in the passenger seat of the Impala. He buckled her in and kept his hands resting on top of hers.

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again, and gave a small shake of her head, almost imperceptible. "Drive fast."

And drive fast he did.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	20. Chapter 20

**Y/N**

The ride to the hospital was a blur, whether from the unbearable pain in my stomach or how fast Dean was driving, I couldn't tell. What I could see through my tears was how worried he was, jaw clenched tight and eyes fixed on the road with a kind of fierce determination I'd only seen in him when he was hunting.

I blinked, and suddenly I was being whisked away on a stretcher, hair fanned out around me on a pillow that smelled strongly of cleaners. The sweat and tears made the pillowcase wet, but I was more focused on looking for Dean. He wasn't anywhere to be found, just a couple of nurses who were pushing my stretcher. I struggled to sit up, propping myself on my elbow.

"Dean," I choked out, panic rising in my voice. "Where is he? Where's my husband?"

"Shh, honey, just lie back down," said one of the nurses in an infuriatingly condescending tone that made me clench my fists with anger. I knew that she was just trying to be kind, but in my current state—scared, in pain—I wasn't thinking clearly.

"I want my husband," I repeated slowly and through gritted teeth. "Where is he?"

"In the waiting room, sweetie," the same nurse said, gently but firmly trying to push me back down onto the stretcher. "The doctor's going to take care of you and then get him in there right away. Don't worry."

But worry I did. I didn't want to be alone, not now of all times, not here where the light was harsh and smell even more so. This place wasn't unfamiliar, there'd been more than one occasion where a hunt had gone wrong and we needed to make a trip to fix a broken bone or concussion, but Dean had always been by my side now. This was different. I couldn't place this pain, any of these symptoms, and now the only people standing next to me were a couple of nurses who wore too much perfume.

A few minutes later, I passed out.

#

I woke up soon after, pain still there, but not as strong. I was attached to several tubes, head foggy. They'd given me meds, that much I could tell. Just as I was sitting up in the bed, leaning against the pillows, the doctor came in.

He gave me one of those "don't-worry-I-know-what-I'm-doing-and-everything-is-going-to-be-just-fine" smiles. "Mrs. Winchester?"

I nodded.

He held his hand out to me, and I shook it, though I was sure my grip wasn't as firm as it usually was. "I'm Dr. Lattimer. I need to ask you a few questions so we can pinpoint what exactly this pain is that you're having. Do you mind?"

"No," I said, but my voice was so hoarse I had to clear my throat and say it again. "No, go ahead."

So he asked me some questions, about the pain, the vomiting, how my diet had been these past few weeks, even the pregnancy. He was very thorough, we must've been talking for an hour before he stopped typing the notes into his laptop and "ran some tests," whatever that meant. I barely registered anything he did until it was another couple hours later and he came back in the room to find me half asleep from the side effects of the pain medication they'd given me.

"Mrs. Winchester, I think it's best if we call your husband in now." He gave me a small smile, one very different from the first. This one didn't meet his eyes.

I narrowed mine at him. "What's wrong?"

He set his laptop down on the counter by the window, removing his glasses and wiping them on his shirt with a heavy sigh. He didn't answer me until he'd replaced them, clearly stalling for time. "I just think you should both be in here when I give you the facts."

I shook my head, balling up the sheets in my fists to keep my hands from shaking. "No, I want to know first."

"Mrs. Win—"

"Please," I said firmly, more a demand than a request. "I want to be the one to tell him." Then, more gently this time, "Please."

He studied me for a good few seconds, nodded, and said, "All right." He pushed the chair over a little closer by my bed and sat carefully, as if it were made of something extremely fragile, or there were pins scattered across it and he was trying not to sit on any. When all he did was stare at his clasped hands, resting on his knees, I figured it was time I got the ball rolling.

"Just give it to me straight," I said in as casual a voice as I could manage. Even though I was terrified of what he was about to tell me, I had to start acting strong now. For myself. For Dean. "Don't sugarcoat anything, I can handle it."

"Mrs. Winchester, I highly doubt this is something you're prepared to hear . . ."

"Just tell me."

So he did. Then I asked him to leave the room and wait five minutes before going to get Dean. Five minutes, that's all I would allow myself. Five minutes would be enough time to cry.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	21. Chapter 21

**Dean**

"Y/N."

Dean said her name in the way one would let out a sigh and say "thank god." And that was pretty much what was going through his mind at the moment, too preoccupied with the sight of her awake and sitting up and even smiling at him to realize that the upward quirk of her lips was tight and forced. He collapsed by the side of her bed, knees banging painfully against the floor, but he didn't notice or care. Gripping her hand in both of his, he gave a little squeeze. "How are you feeling? The doctor said you wanted to talk to me."

"I'm feeling okay," she said softly, voice slow and smooth as caramel. It was calm, gentle . . . too calm. Y/N didn't talk like that, she was fierce and explosive. Even when she was totally relaxed her tone was emphatic, not like this. Dean pushed the worried thoughts away, dismissing it as a side effect of the meds they'd given her. "Hey, why don't you take a seat?"

He shook his head, his once relieved smile slipping immediately. Something was definitely off. "No, I'm fine. I want to stay close to you."

Dean could've sworn he heard her breath hitch on the inhale, but if it had, she straightened it out right after. She nodded and scooted to one side of the bed, carefully arranging the tubes in a way that kept them from getting tangled, and patted the empty space beside her. "Then get in here."

He stood back up, wincing at the resistance of his sore knees where he'd bruised them, and got into bed next to her in a way that wouldn't disturb her too much. His right arm went around her waist, holding her close to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, took a few breaths deep enough for him to feel, to hear. With each passing moment he felt his heart beat a little harder. This not knowing was killing him slowly. Not getting all the information right away when he was sure she knew everything could only mean one thing: this was not a good thing.

"I have something to tell you," she whispered, rubbing her thumb across the lines in his palm.

"I know, Dr. Lattimer said you did."

"You're not going to like it."

Dean inhaled sharply, held it. "Okay."

Y/N took another deep breath, pulling her head from his shoulder as she did so, as if the effort were that of lifting a heavy weight. He could see the lump in her throat bob up and down as she swallowed hard, eyes flicking around his face. It was almost like she was trying to memorize it, but her gaze finally landed on his, blue eyes meeting green.

"Dean, I have liver cancer."

The phrase "time stood still" crossed Dean's mind. Nothing moved, neither of them breathed. This was a joke, it had to be a joke. A trick worthy of Gabriel or some other angel who had it out for them. Could this be a dream? Another nightmare?

"But—" He stammered, the rest of his words lodging in his throat.

"Dean," she whispered again, sliding her hand up his arm, down again, resting on top of his. Their wedding rings glinted in the hospital light. "Say something."

"But there's treatments, right?" He croaked out. "Chemo, something . . . just—there's got to be something."

She bit her lip, then pressed them both together and gave one barely perceptible shake of her head. And he could tell the strength she fought to have for him, the kind of strength he'd fought to have for her and Sam and Cas and anyone he'd ever loved deeply enough to hide his own hurt for the sake of healing theirs, crumbled. The strongest person he'd ever known, falling apart before his eyes. "Dean, I've only got weeks."

Dean Winchester had heard of heartbreak. It was in enough songs for him to know that it was real, but he'd always had a hard time believing it. A person could be stabbed, but their heart couldn't break just from the sheer force of pain.

But now he understood. Now he could feel it, the fault line pulling apart into a chasm, bits of his heart and his soul landing in the pit of his stomach and rest there. Dead weight.

Dean had died before, on multiple occasions. He'd felt the sharp, ragged intakes of his last breaths. He knew what it was like to watch the lights fade away and every sound turn to dust. The smell of his own blood, the feeling of the hard ground beneath him as cold as the grave he'd occupy just days later as he clung to the last person who'd ever hold him . . . none of that compared to this. Now.

He'd been silent too long. He hadn't heard Y/N whisper his name until her pale, twig-like fingers found his shoulders and squeezed. "Dean, please don't be sad. Please. You've had too much pain in your past to let this hurt you, too. It's my own damn fault. All that binge drinking I did as a kid, well . . . it was hard on my liver. And I'm paying the price for it now."

"Why didn't I catch it sooner?" He said hoarsely, staring right through her. "The vomiting, the weight loss, your skin . . . if I'd said to come check it out—"

"I would've said _no_." Y/N rested both of her hands on his shoulders. "Dean, none of this is on you. Okay? _None_ of it. So don't guilt trip yourself over something that can't be undone. We need to focus on the time we have left, on Mason—" Her voice wobbled and cracked, but she regained her composure with surprising ease. "Can you do that? For me?"

Dean had to fight tooth and nail not to break down right then and there, but with an astronomical amount of effort, he nodded.

"Thank you," she sighed, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. He pressed his nose into her neck, but her usual flowery scent was barely recognizable under the sweat and hospital chemical smell.

"Dean?" She whispered once more, shaking so slightly he might not have noticed it if it weren't for the fact that every bit of his energy was going into staying steady for her. "I really believe you were the best thing that ever happened to me."

Dean squeezed her even tighter against himself, knuckles bumping the tubes stuck in her. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Her voice strained and cracked, and she collapsed into great heaving sobs, soaking his shirt in seconds. It was clear she'd been trying so hard to hold it in, tried to stay brave. But she was so scared, and she had every right to be. Life had dealt her a shitty hand, and now all the cards were laid out in plain site.

He would stand by her through this. He would be her rock.

And he would build a dam to keep anything from leaking through. She didn't deserve this kind of an ending. He would rewrite her a final chapter, a proper departure.

If death was going to steal her away from him too damn soon, he would hang on as tight as he could for as long as he could. For her.

He wouldn't let her see him cry.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	22. Chapter 22

**Y/N**

After my break down in front of Dean, I got myself together again and waited for Dr. Lattimer to come back in. He explained how because of catching it in such a late stage, there was little they could do. They could delay "the decline," as he called it, so I could live up to maybe a month, at best. They would set me up with Hospice so I could spend the rest of my time at home. They would try to make everything as painless as possible. I wouldn't suffer for long.

When the doctor asked if we had any questions, Dean's first surprised me most. "What about travel?"

Dr. Lattimer gave him a sympathetic frown and shook his head. "We strongly recommend against trips farther than an hour or so away as it would put you too far out of our reach. You need to be close enough so we can help should anything come up."

Dean swallowed, nodded, mumbled, "Thank you."

The rest of the conversation was solemn, and we didn't get into the Impala and start driving home until four that afternoon. Dean glanced at his phone, sighed, and shoved it back in his pocket before heading down the highway.

"Why did you ask about travel?" I said when the silence became too loud to bear, though I kept my gaze fixed on the road.

Dean shrugged with one shoulder as he made a left turn. "You've always talked about wanting to travel, see the world. Well . . . I wanted to show it to you."

"Oh, sweetie . . ." I reached out for his arm and squeezed it, rubbing up and down. "I appreciate the thoughtfulness more than you can imagine, but there's nothing I'd rather do these next few weeks than stay at the bunker and hang out with you, Mason, and everyone else."

"Yeah," he sighed, and I noticed his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Nothing more was said until we got home and I caught Dean's elbow when he turned to open the front door. "We have to tell the others."

His face fell more, if it was even possible. "Y/N—"

"No, we have to," I insisted. "And you know Sam's going to ask anyways, and Cas'll have been told about where we went. It'll only be worse the longer we wait."

Dean closed his eyes slowly, as if he were the embodiment of exhaustion. He finally nodded, voice breathy, fleeting and practically nonexistent, like dandelion seeds scattered in the breeze. "Okay. You're right. Do you want me to—"

"I'll tell them," I said quickly, not wanting to burden him with anything else. "You don't even have to be in the room when I break it to them."

"No, I'll be there. I want to be. Besides, I can answer questions, too, if they have any."

Telling them proved to be almost as hard as telling Dean. Sam started crying immediately, pulling me into a tight hug, though he usual squeeze was so much shakier and gentler than usual. He told me over and over again that it was going to be okay and that he'd watch out for Mason and Dean. Cas looked so much older and broken, eyes full of grief as he tried desperately to heal me even though he was still human. He was searching for a miracle that wouldn't come.

After Sam and Cas had taken their turns hugging and comforting Dean and I couldn't bear to continue standing in a room with this much sadness hanging over everyone, I attempted a smile as I said I was tired and wanted to see Mason before going to bed. Dean came with me.

It looked as if he was just waking up when I walked in, eyes blinking slowly as he squinted against the light streaming in from the hallway. My heart simultaneously swelled and crumbled when I lifted him from his crib and held him against my chest.

"Hey, baby," I whispered, kissing the top of his head. "Hey, Mason. You are so handsome." I pressed my nose into his wispy hair, inhaling the warm baby scent. Holding his bundle of joy so close to me made my very core hurt more than it should've. I didn't notice I was shaking again until I felt two strong hands rest on my shoulders, gripping them in a way that said _I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere._

"I don't want to leave him," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut as they burned white hot, a cascade of tears pouring down my face before I could stop them. One dripped onto Mason's nose, and he wrinkled it up. "I don't want to leave you."

"I know," he whispered back, rubbing my arms. "I don't want it either."

I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood, but I didn't let up, afraid that I did I would break down again.

But Dean, as if he could sense this, turned me around and wrapped his arms around me so Mason was snuggled in between us. He rubbed my back in circles, resting his chin on top of my head.

"It's okay to cry," he murmured. "It's okay to break down."

I closed my eyes again, unable to see anything with them open anyways. My voice quivered. It didn't even sound like my own. "It's not fair. I'm not done here."

"I know," he repeated, taking a deep breath. "But it's like you said, right? We can focus on the time we have now, with Mason, with each other."

I shook my head against his chest as my own words came back to me, sniffing hard. "You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

"Hey," he cut me off, then took my face in his hands and cupped my cheeks so I was looking at him. Or rather, a blurry version of him. "You of all people can do whatever the hell you want. If you want to cry, cry. If you want to scream, scream. If you want to curse the world and break something, I'll find you a vase you can throw at the wall. Whatever you want, I'm here."

I cried until I could practically see through Dean's shirt from how wet it was from my tears; until my legs gave out and my knees buckled and Dean had to catch me around my middle to keep me from falling; until he set me down on the bed and I curled up on my side with Mason tucked into my arms next to me. I cried for hours, and Dean stayed right by me, as he'd promised. At this point I couldn't tell if the stabbing pain in my stomach was from the sobbing or the disease.

It was well into the early morning when I was finally able to take breaths without them shuddering. An empty box of tissues sat at the end of the bed, the tissues that had been in there wet and crumpled around it. Dean brought an extra blanket from the closet to lay around Mason and me when I said I was cold.

"Do you want something to eat?" He said after several long minutes of silence.

"I'm not hungry," I mumbled back, staring through the wall. "But you can eat if you want to."

Dean sighed, one arm still around me so I could feel it course through his whole body. "I'm not either."

"Hey." I reached up and put my hand on top of his, even though I couldn't find the strength to squeeze. "Tomorrow's a new day, right? We've gotten all of this off our chests, we can start fresh."

He twitched his lips up enough to resemble a smile, and even though it was an exhausted movement, it seemed like maybe, just maybe, it was genuine. "Yeah, we can start fresh. What do you want to do?"

I scooted as close as I could, holding Mason with one arm, resting my head on top of Dean's chest. I felt his heartbeat, strong and steady. "I just want to lay in bed with you and Mason. Is that dumb?"

Dean kissed my forehead, letting his soft lips linger against my skin. "That sounds perfect."

When I drifted into sleep, it was long and heavy, the color of the sky after a storm, light grey with the slightest hint of blue.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	23. Chapter 23

**Dean**

Everything was downhill from there.

Not a single night went by without Y/N waking up to vomit in the toilet, which then woke Mason up, and most of the time YN was too exhausted to help for very long. So Dean got maybe an hour of sleep or two a night, perpetual purple bags under his eyes giving him the appearance of a raccoon.

Usually Y/N was all too happy to spend the days in bed, arms around him, sometimes in silence, sometimes while talking about things like their favorite movies or bands, sometimes with Netflix playing in the background.

On the good days, the little glimpses of hope Dean clung to like his life depended on it, Y/N shakily ventured out of the room with Dean's help to spend time with the others. Charlie had taken a guest room when she heard, greeting Y/N with a hug and a sad smile. She still joked with her and gave her all the nerdy gossip like she always did, but it didn't feel the same. Nothing did.

Three games into a Monopoly tournament one Wednesday night-the first time in days Dean had heard her laugh-Y/N got up suddenly and jerked her way to the closest bathroom. Dean cringed at the retching, how easily the others could hear it with looks of pain and sympathy, and excused himself in a murmur to help.

The first thing he noticed was how much blood there was, more than just the usual trickles she coughed up every time. This was a frightening amount. This was a warning sign.

Dean crouched down next to her and held back her hair, brushing it away with the kind of gentleness someone would have while cradling a baby bird. Rubbing her back, he waited until she'd flushed the toilet and caught her breath to say anything.

"Y/N . . ." He started, but trailed off when he realized he didn't have an end to the sentence in mind.

Y/N just reached back, found his hand, and squeezed. Her voice was an exhausted whisper when she spoke. "Dean, it's time."

"Time for what?" He asked, though he knew exactly what it was time for. He just couldn't bring himself to admit it. Didn't want to, couldn't, wished he didn't have to. There would be no denial anymore.

"Hospice. I'm just getting worse, I can't do this anymore, _we_ can't do this on our own." She wouldn't stop looking at him with those wide, endless blue eyes of hers. The ones he saw in his sleep, when he woke, anywhere he turned for years ever since a frazzled waitress came to their table in a dingy diner to take his order. And even now, there were still flecks of gold, hidden galaxies, a spark of fight in her. Not the kind of hopeless fight that would get them nowhere. No, this fight was something much braver. She would not let this illness _beat_ her. The disease was simply a symptom of decline, in her eyes. And she was determined. She would die on her own terms.

"Okay," he said softly, nodding as if that would help it sink in more. "I'll call tomorrow."

She gave him a tired, relieved smile. He felt her slump against him even more. It was almost as if now she'd been given the permission to rest, and she could barely hold her own head up because of it. "Thank you."

"Of course," he murmured, pressing his lips against her too warm forehead. "Anything for you."

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	24. Chapter 24

**Y/N**

"Anything I can do to make you more comfortable, honey?"

I gave the Hospice nurse, Pam, a distant smile. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

She pursed her lips and patted my head the way one might a dog. She was all too plastic Barbie "I can be a nurse!" and far, _far_ too chipper. Like the fact that I was dying made her uncomfortable and we should all do our best to stay away from the topic.

"All right, sugar, you just holler if you need anything." She fluffed the pillows behind me one last time, even though I'd finally gotten them the way I liked it, and left with an armload of laundry. Dean must've been right outside the door at the time, because the two almost collided.

"How's it going in here?" He asked me after leaning the door shut.

"Okay." It was the best answer I could give him. How was my decline? Just dandy. I coughed up less blood than usual this morning, the dozens of tissues in my waste basket evidence of that. "How's Mason?"

"Cranky," Dean admitted. He went straight to the pillows behind me when he saw me shift around in an attempt to fix them. I didn't even have to say anything before he started adjusting. He knew I liked them flat. "He just spit up all over Cas' trench coat."

"Oh god," I groaned.

Dean flapped a hand. "It needed a wash anyways."

"Before," as I like to call it, the silences between us were welcome breaks in the conversation. Neither of us felt compelled to be surrounded by constant noise or chatter. We were content to sit under the stars or in each other's arms or huddled for warmth on the couch during a power outage in an almost quiet. I could still hear his even breathing, sometimes even his heartbeat if my head laid on his chest. I'm sure at times he could hear mine, too.

But too often now the pauses meant something much bigger than they seemed. Information being held back, feelings too large to voice, fears that whirled around and around. More than once I caught Dean checking for a pulse when he thought I was asleep. His fingers were warm on my freezing neck.

"Come here." I scooted over on the bed and pulled the blankets back so he could get in, which he did. It was a little cramped, but still roomier than a hospital bed. I tried to imagine we were still young and carefree and I'd just agreed to leave town with him and Sam. I pretended we were in another motel, and Sam had just fallen asleep, so Dean snuck out of bed with him and crawled under the covers with me where we'd giggle into our pillows so we wouldn't wake him up.

"How long?" I whispered. Dean had taken my hand and started tracing swirls in my palm, like he did every night before bed.

"How long what?" He wouldn't look at me.

"You know what, Dean, I know you asked her."

I watched the lump in his throat bob up and down as he swallowed, something he always did to put off having to tell me something. "She said days."

Strangely, I didn't feel as heavy a sense of dread as I had all this time. Something about the soonness of it all made it seem farther away than it actually was. I nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?" Dean almost laughed, but it was one of those huffs of air that he used to hide what he was actually feeling. "That's it?"

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" My voice was as strong as it had been years ago, when I'd first met him. "What do you want me to do? Fall apart again? Cry, scream, throw things? Apologize for all the stupid mistakes I made as a kid that's causing this?"

Dean leaned back, just slightly, and stopped his tracing. His surprise at the edge in my voice was apparent as he stuttered, "No, of course not-I mean, if it'll help-I don't know-"

"I can't," I snapped, not even angry with him, not even angry. But it sounded like I was, every word a bite or an almost snarl. I didn't recognize my voice or my words as my own. "I'm not going to. I'm sorry, but I don't have the energy for that anymore. I'm just-I'm just done. I'm so tired . . ."

Dean's face softened as mine did. I trailed off, an ellipses ending my sentence instead of a period.

He squeezed my hand as a way of getting me to look up at him. And in that moment, I saw him only as the strong man I'd fallen in love with, someone who looked death in the face day after day and smirked at it. I knew he was doing it for me, that inside he was probably still terrified, but seeing his eyes glint with determination made me feel safe.

"You can rest," he said. "It's okay. Whatever you want."

"I will." I tilted my head so I could lay it on his shoulder. I nuzzled my nose into his neck, and he only jumped a little at how cold it was compared to his warm skin. "Eventually."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A dog?" I teased him, hoping to coax a smile.

It worked. "For the last time, we are _not_ getting a dog."

"Sam thinks we should get a dog."

"Yeah, well, Sam's an idiot."

I snorted. "You two are so nice to each other."

"I know."

Mason gave a fussy wail from down the hall, and Dean sighed, his exhaustion revealing itself for a moment as he got out of bed more slowly than usual.

"Dean," I said before he could leave. "Bring him in here. I can take care of him."

"It's not a big deal, he probably just needs a diaper change," Dean started to argue.

"Please," I cut him off. "I just want to see him."

Dean twisted the knob a few times, studying me for a second, then left to get Mason. When he came back, though, maybe a minute later, I was already half asleep, struggling to keep my eyes open. I didn't even see him come into the room, just felt his lips on my forehead, a gently kiss, like he hadn't wanted to wake me up.

"Shh," he said as soon as I'd started to shift to sit up. "Just sleep. You need it."

I shook my head and reached out for Mason, who had his entire fist stuffed in his mouth as Dean held him. I didn't tell Dean that I felt like I was wasting time by sleeping the hours away, that every moment I got to hold Mason was treasured like gold. I just reached, and Dean handed him over.

With my son curled up against my chest and my husband stroking my hair so it was away from my face, I slipped away into sleep, unable to resist anymore.

 **A/N:** Reviews are always much appreciated!


	25. Chapter 25

**Dean**

Days passed, and Dean held up his heart with all the strength he could manage. He held his son without thinking about how he'd be the only one holding him soon. Of course those thoughts crept in every so often, when he let his guard down, when night came and he laid awake so he'd be ready at a moment's notice to help Y/N vomit into a bucket or comfort Mason so his crying wouldn't wake her up.

It was four days later exactly since Dean had mustered up the nerve to ask Pam the question he didn't even want to know the answer to. The fourth day had barely even begun when it happened, making it that much crueler. The fact that the sun dared to shine after it happened made Dean want to shoot it out of the sky and let a moonless night last forever.

Dean hadn't left Y/N's side all morning. With her endless vomiting and the sheets needing changing after she'd missed the bucket the first time, Dean kept busy. When he wasn't changing Mason's diaper or resting a damp washcloth on Y/N's forehead, he was letting her cling to his shirt and shake for no reason at all. She barely spoke. He wasn't sure if it hurt too much or if she was too tired or if she just didn't know what to say, but he let her be the one to eventually break the quiet.

"Dean," she whispered, like she started so many of her sentences. Hearing his name come from her lips was one of Dean's favorite things.

Dean tugged a fresh shirt onto Mason, the other one covered in spit up and drool. "Yeah?"

"Can you-will you get the others, please?"

Dean looked over his shoulder at her, but she was watching her pillow with a kind of intensity he didn't recognize, eyes wider than they had been for a long time.

"Sure, what is it?"

"I just want to see them." She was being evasive, that much he could tell.

"Y/N," he said. The pause he let hang in the air after her name prompted her to elaborate on her reasoning.

"I want to say goodbye," she said.

Dean clutched Mason to him a little tighter, his eyes still on Y/N, who'd lost so much weight these past weeks, she barely even looked like herself anymore. If it weren't for those eyes that somehow managed to stay the same shade of sparkling blue, she'd be almost unrecognizable.

"You're sure?"

She nodded against the pillow and glanced up at Dean for the first time. She wasn't crying. She rarely cried, even through all of this shit. "I'm sure."

Dean passed Mason off, setting him by her side before she even had to ask. He watched for shaking hands or trembling lips, but Y/N was steady as she pulled him to her. Mason gurgled and swatted at her playfully, and Dean was relieved to see her crack a smile. He kissed her gently, then went to the kitchen where the others were making lunch preparations.

Charlie was the first to look up at the sound of his heavy footsteps. She'd been smiling at something Cas had said, but it quickly slipped off her face, like raindrops down a window. Dean hadn't even said anything, she just abandoned the vegetables on the cutting board and crossed the kitchen to hug him tight.

The conversation Sam and Cas had been having fizzled when they noticed Charlie and Dean hugging in the doorway. Sam turned off the heat on the stove so the water wouldn't boil, and he and Cas made their way over, too.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean tried to smile at Charlie when he let go, but the way she looked at him made him think his attempts were futile. "Y/N wants to see all of you."

Charlie made a little sniffling noise, covering her mouth and nose with a hand to muffle it, but Dean saw her shoulders slump forward. Sam's jaw clenched as he reached over to squeeze Charlie's arm, though he kept his eyes on Dean, who in turn looked at them all without really looking. Only Cas remained unaware.

"What does she want?" He asked with a slight tilt of his head.

"She just wants to see you, Cas," Dean mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "She, uh-she wants to . . . you know." He thought he'd be able to say it, but the words lodged in his throat.

Cas' eyebrows pinched together. Dean was grateful when Sam took the initiative to explain.

"To say goodbye," Sam said softly.

"Good-" Cas started, the rest of his sentence getting swallowed up as he realized what Sam meant. "Oh."

"Does she want us now?" Charlie said. She wrung her hands in front of her, chewing on her lower lip.

Dean nodded. "She's in her room with Mason."

Charlie gave Dean one more fleeting hug before shuffling down the hall. Her hurrying away seemed sudden, but Dean figured out why she'd left so quickly when he heard her give a gasp once she'd apparently thought she was far enough away to not be noticed.

"Dean," Sam said.

Dean stopped him before he could say anything else. "Just go see her. We can talk after."

Sam didn't look happy about it, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. He gripped Dean's shoulder on the way by, and Cas and Dean were the only ones left in the room.

"You can go, too, Cas," Dean said, thinking that maybe he needed prompting. "She wanted to see all of you."

Cas ignored his verbal nudging. "Dean, are you all right?"

Dean rubbed his face with the heels of his palms, head pounding. Heart pounding. Heart cracking. "No," he said hoarsely, without looking at him. "I'm not. But we don't have time to talk about me. You need-you need to see her."

Cas looked pained when Dean was finally able to move his hands away from his face and face the world without a barrier between him. He didn't move for a second, and Dean was about to speak again when the former angel moved to leave. Or so he thought. Instead he wrapped strong arms around Dean's slumped shoulders, squeezed the drowning hunter tight and said in a murmur, "There will be peace in the next life."

And right then, it is the kindest thing Cas can do for Dean Winchester, the perfect words at the perfect time, even if it only repairs a fraction of an infinitesimal corner of his heart.

None of the others could've possibly known how much strength it took for Dean to carry this weight, but for a second, he let himself quiver under it, Cas taking some of it off his shoulders. All at once, Dean gave a deep inhale, then moved away from Cas with a small nod, as if to say thank you when his voice was too fragile to form the words itself.

Dean didn't even see Cas leave, either because he moved too fast, or Dean was too out of it to notice. Probably the latter. Wanting to give Y/N her time with the other three and Mason, Dean lowered himself into a creaking kitchen chair. All was silent. Too silent for a house where five other people lived. It felt more like those days when Dean and Sam were alone, when no one rode in the backseat of the Impala.

Dean never thought he'd have to load a car seat into the back for a baby.

Casting his thoughts back to Mason caused him to bend over the table as if someone had landed a punch in his gut, pushing the air from him completely. His breaths in were shaky, breaths out even more so. Clasping his hands on the table, eyes squeezed shut with a kind of fierce, burning determination, Dean did something he'd done only enough times to be able to count them on one hand.

He prayed.

In his head, just in case the trembling of his voice caused some kind of problem during transmission, or whatever you called it. He didn't even know what he was praying, he just knew that every fiber of his body was aching, begging, pleading with whoever was listening. _Please, God, don't take her from me,_ his heart whispered. _Not now. Not from her family, her son. She's so young. God, she's so young . . ._

It was cliché, and it was painful, and everything about the silent scene Dean created in the empty kitchen was just like something you'd see in a sad movie about twenty minutes from the end, but it hurt. When he finally opened his eyes and swallowed and looked around him and saw _no one_ -not one goddamn angel who'd thought to answer his prayer-that's when he knew he'd lost her.

 _Pull yourself together._ Just like that, Dean was able to straighten, blink a few times to dry his eyes, and take a deep breath. Just like that, Dean's mask was back on. Footsteps crescendoed down the hall toward him.

"Dean?" Sam poked his head around the corner. He looked paler than he had when he'd first left to see her. "She's asking for you now."

"Okay." Dean walked back to their room, very conscious of how he walked, how he held himself as he passed his ever observant little brother. Thankfully, Sam knew better than to say anything as he moved around a softly crying Charlie being comforted by Cas and into the makeshift hospital room.

Y/N's face was already glistening when Dean closed the door quietly behind him. Mason slept peacefully, without a single worry, blissfully unaware that the blessing of a mother's arms around him was a fleeting one. Even amidst the gray cloud that hung over them, Dean was able to let the corners of his lips twitch upward, for a moment, at his wife and child.

"Hey, you," she whispered, mirroring his almost smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured back, forgoing the chair altogether to kneel by the bed, so he could be closer to her and Mason as he took her hand and squeezed. "How are you doing?"

"Better with you here." Her thumb, which was cold as ice, brushed over his ring finger and his gold wedding band. "There's something I need to tell you."

"What's that?"

Y/N got interrupted by one of Mason's gurgles that meant he was dreaming, and she let out an exhale that Dean thought was supposed to be a laugh. It took her a second to find her train of thought again.

"Dean, you are so smart, so kind, so brave, so selfless, and all around the _best_ man I have ever had the good fortune to know."

Dean blinked, taken aback. "Why are you saying this?"

"Because I need you to promise me you'll remember that when I'm not around to try to get that through that thick skull of yours," she said in a somewhat teasing manner, poking his arm. "Okay?"

"I'll try," he said.

"Trying's not good enough, Winchester. Try to remember like you try to save the world, by actually doing it."

His lips twitched again, and he kissed her forehead. "All right. I promise."

She reached up to run her fingers through his hair, eyes scanning his face, never landing on one particular feature, like she was trying to memorize it all. "Good."

Y/N pulled him down enough to reach, pressing her lips against his. It wasn't a hungry kiss, or a tender one, or anything at all really. It was their own, and it was perfect for its imperfections, because it belonged to them and them alone.

"Can I do anything for you?" Dean asked once they'd pulled apart, her chest heaving even more for his as it was a struggle to draw in more breath. He hated feeling so helpless, like he was a slave to the future.

She shook her head, hair fanning out around her even more, almost like a halo. "You've done enough already." She brought his hand, still interlocked with hers, to her cheek, looking up into his eyes. "You've done enough."

Dean's callused thumb rubbed along her jaw. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered. "So, so much." Then she bent down to Mason's ear, still cradling him with one arm. "And I love you, baby. You'll be good for your daddy, right, Mason?"

Mason made more gurgling noises in his sleep.

Y/N shifted in the bed so she could lay more comfortably and still be able to look up at Dean, who, miraculously, had been holding back tears all this time.

"Dean," she whispered.

"Y/N," he said by way of answer.

"I'm so tired," she whimpered, and for the first time since he'd entered the room, he saw her start to fall apart, her words akin to the babble of someone still half asleep. Was she even aware of what she was saying? A single tear slipped down her cheek, landed next to Mason's wispy hair.

Her tear prompted one of his own, persistent in falling, to etch a hot trail down his face, drip from the end of his nose. But he smiled, a true one that didn't feel forced or pained or saddened by the situation. It was a comforting gesture, one he could wear for her as his hand stroked her hair. The sort of expression a parent might have when getting their child to go back to sleep after a nightmare.

"I know," he said softly, voice steady for once. Knowing that she needed his strength and reassurance right now made it easier for him to bring those things to the surface where she could see it. "It's okay. Just rest."

"Dean," she said again, but her eyelids were already slipping, starting to hide those great big blue eyes of hers.

"Shh . . ." He bent forward to rest his lips against her forehead once more. "Shh, rest."

Y/N's eyes closed with a shaky breath, one hand clutching Dean's, her other arm curling Mason closer to her chest. Dean didn't say anything else, just stayed where he was and watched her forehead wrinkle and eyebrows pinch, like she was struggling to stay awake when her body was screaming for sleep. It was several minutes of that horrible silence, the waiting.

Dean didn't know how else to help her, but at some point he realized he'd been humming, ever so quietly, he wasn't even sure she could hear him. It was just a few bars, a verse of "Hey Jude" he'd sung countless times, for her and for Mason.

But it was enough. Her features softened, breaths evened out, and mother and child slept side by side. Y/N's grip on Dean's hand relaxed. Dean squeezed her fingers to let her know he was still there. When she didn't squeeze back, his breath hitched.

She was gone.

 **A/N:** Don't worry, there are still more chapters coming. Reviews are always much appreciated!


	26. Chapter 26

**Dean**

Everywhere he turned, ghosts plagued him. Faded memories and echoing laughs, ordinary objects Dean wouldn't even notice if it weren't for the fact that she'd touched it, left her mark on it, made it glow a little brighter because it had been brushed by her soul.

He couldn't escape it. Not unless he was down half a bottle of whiskey, when his head was foggy enough to make the rest of his body numb. When even Mason's crying didn't startle him out of his stupor. Slowly, so slowly, he fell to the ground on his knees in his room and let himself be consumed by his drunken state. But he was just sober enough to stay angry, all the time, so angry. And a week after the funeral Mason screamed louder still, but it was because he was right outside his door, held in the arms of someone who was trying to quiet him.

"Dean?" It was Sam. He didn't knock, didn't even wait for Dean's answer, just walked right in.

Dean glared at him with bloodshot eyes. He wanted to be alone. No, that wasn't right. He wanted her, but he couldn't have her, so the alternative was sitting on the floor against the bed, cradling the whiskey like he used to cradle his son.

"Dean," Sam repeated, more sternly this time. "You have to snap out of it, man. I—"

"Snap out of it?" Dean growled. "Are you serious right now?"

Sam sighed heavily. His tone softened. "That's not what I meant. Of course you're sad, and that's fine, it's expected. We're all sad, Dean. But the drinking needs to stop. You're never going to come out of this if you don't stop now."

"You don't know what I need. Just go."

"Dean—"

" _Go_!" Dean threw the whiskey at him, but it hit the wall instead, shattered and spilled all over the floor. Mason, who had just stopped crying, screeched again, buried his face in Sam's shoulder.

Sam shot his brother one last look, somewhere between rage and sympathy, and left.

Nobody came for Dean until the next morning, probably too scared to even check on him. Dean didn't sleep. He only moved when his position was too cramped. His head pounded as he rested it on his propped up knees. He didn't lift it even when someone knocked softly on the door.

"Dean?" Came Cas' rasp.

"I already told Sam to leave me alone," Dean mumbled. He wondered if Cas could even hear him.

The angel opened the door. Mason was asleep in his arms, drooling all over his trench coat. Cas' perpetual frown deepened when he saw what sort of state Dean was in.

"This isn't healthy," Cas said.

Dean grunted.

"You're going to drink yourself to death, or worse, to ambivalence and leave this child as good as an orphan."

"He's better off without me," Dean muttered.

"You don't really mean that," Cas said. "As an orphan yourself, you can't possibly think that's true."

Dean took another swig from his bottle he'd retrieved from under his bed and stared at the shards that still glittered like diamonds at the edge of his room.

Cas sighed, much like Sam had sighed. Mason stirred in his sleep.

"Just come out," Cas said. "You can still sit in silence if that's what you want, but just come out of this room. You shouldn't be alone."

"Everyone seems to think they know what's best for me these days," Dean said, and his voice was dangerous now. "But you're all wrong. I need to be alone right now."

"Not this sort of alone," Cas insisted. "I've seen this behavior from Winchesters before, and it never ends well."

"Dean?" Came another, smaller voice, and Charlie peeked around Cas. She was paler than ever, eyes wide. She looked scared. "You haven't eaten in days. Don't you think—"

"Why can't anyone leave me the hell alone?" Dean all but shouted, but the sharp tone made Charlie flinch, and the numbness had faded enough to make Dean's stomach twinge. She cowered back behind Cas, and her hurried footsteps down the hall weren't quite enough to muffle her sob.

"She wouldn't want this," Cas said quietly.

"Well she's not here."

"You're right. And neither are you."

He didn't bother to close the door after he left and Dean didn't bother to get up to do it. He drained the last of his bottle and fell asleep there, sitting up, his chin almost touching his chest.

#

Dean woke up an hour later, disoriented. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke the pitiful contents of his stomach. The bile burned more on the way up than the whiskey had on the way down. His mouth was dry and felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. The stench of his own breath made him grimace. He shuffled to the kitchen, one hand on the wall for support, in search of a glass of water and something to get rid of his goddamn headache.

Sam was there when he went in, bags almost as puffy and dark as Dean's under his eyes. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and tapped on his laptop with the other. For a second, the two brothers stared at each other as their only way of acknowledgement. Then Sam murmured a, "Hey."

"Hey," Dean croaked. He winced at the throb his head gave.

"You look like hell."

"Speak for yourself."

"I've been up all night with my nephew." Sam yawned in proof, stifling it against the back of his hand. Dean went to the cupboards for what he'd come here for, already anxious to leave. "Charlie has him now."

"Good," Dean said, disinterested.

"He hasn't stopped crying since you locked yourself away."

Dean swallowed a couple pills, drank half the glass. He couldn't tell if any of this was helping. His mind was clearer, which made the pain intensify.

"Dean, we're all worried about you."

"Don't waste your energy. I'm fine," Dean grunted. He emptied the glass, refilled it.

"Bullshit."

Dean didn't respond. Sam shut the lid of his laptop forcefully.

"We're going out today," Sam said. It wasn't an offer, a request, or even a question. This was a demand.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"You, me, Mason. You're going to hold your son, and I'm going to drive us to the cemetery, and we're going to visit Y/N's grave. End of discussion."

"I don't feel like it."

"This isn't up for debate. You've barely left your room since the funeral. I don't care if you go wearing the same clothes you've worn for a week. I don't care if you don't shower. I don't care if you don't say a single word while we're out. But you need this and Mason needs this and I need you to not hurt yourself more than you're already hurting."

Sam's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. His eyes were fierce, but they were glassy from unshed tears. Dean set his empty glass in the sink.

"I'll go get Mason," he mumbled.

Sam gave a curt nod. "I'll be in the car."

#

The ride was silent, but neither of the brothers made any attempt to break it. Like Sam had said, he didn't seem to care. The fact that Dean was outside, breathing fresh air, was enough for him. Mason slept soundly in the backseat. The whir of the Impala's wheels on the pavement, of the rumbling engine, had always been one of his favorite lullabies.

The weather was brisk, but Dean welcomed the chill on his hot skin, made even warmer as he carried his son across the grass. Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked slightly ahead to lead the way. Dean was grateful. He'd only been to the gravesite once, during the funeral, and the whole day had been a black blur. He didn't even remember giving the short speech he'd written, what it said, what anyone had said. He only remembered the coffin being lowered slowly, so slowly, into the ground.

Y/N's gravestone was the newest one, sticking out like a beacon calling to Dean. Sam stood aside so Dean could read it, even though he already knew what it said. "Y/N Winchester. Wife, mother, loved by all."

Mason whimpered, as if he could feel his mother's presence, so close yet so out of reach. Dean rocked him gently.

"Shh," he whispered. "It's okay."

Lies, all lies. It wasn't okay. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it was _not_ okay. Dean didn't know if he'd ever be okay again. His shoulders slumped forward more than they already had these past weeks. He held his son tight, but the rest of him trembled as the words on Y/N's gravestone blurred.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to feel.

Dean's breath hitched audibly, and Sam's hand came to rest on his brother's shoulder. The pressure was enough to keep Dean grounded, to keep his grip on Mason firmly enough to comfort him.

"I know," Dean said quietly to Mason when he started to cry again. "I miss her, too."

Mason just sniffled and looked up at Dean with those unfairly bright blue eyes. Flecked with gold. Endless. Mesmerizing.

"You look just like her, buddy." Dean's lips twitched as their eyes stayed locked on each other. "And she would've been the best to you."

Part of him forgot Sam was standing right there and the other part was beyond glad that he was, to keep him steady, keep him standing. Dean said, "I promise I'll be here. I'll do what she would've wanted. Every day. I promise."

Minutes later, maybe hours, Dean took a shaky breath and turned to Sam.

"Let's go home."

Sam nodded. "Okay."

"And maybe—maybe we can eat together. All of us. And talk about her."

"If you want."

"Yeah. I do."

"Then we'll be there."

The drive home was just as silent, but not quite as heavy. Dean watched Mason slip back to sleep in the rearview mirror. He didn't even wake as they stepped back inside the bunker.

The bunker was quiet and dim as it had been for ages, but for the first time in a while, it didn't feel like a waiting room. It didn't feel tense or hopeless. It felt maybe just a little like home.

Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder one more time before going ahead of him. Dean went the opposite direction to his room to lay Mason down in his crib, who had just begun to fuss in his arms.

"Hey, little man, don't cry," Dean said as he bounced him. "It's all right."

Mason only wailed louder. Dean sighed and sat down in the rocking chair with him in another attempt to settle him.

"Hey, Jude," Dean sang softly. Those first two notes already quieted Mason more than anything else had. "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better."

Mason's eyes drooped and Dean got up hesitantly, started to lay him down in his crib.

"Remember to let her into your heart," Dean whispered. A tear slipped down the side of his nose and landed with a soft splat next to Mason, who stayed sleeping. "And then you can start to make it better."

#

Mason was quiet for a long time after Dean's voice had trailed off. They'd spent hours into the early morning sitting in the semi-darkness. The sun would start to rise soon. Dean thought distantly that it was a good thing Mason didn't have school today.

"I told you it was a long story," Dean said, just to break the silence.

"I'm glad you told me," Mason mumbled. He had the look of someone whose whole world had been opened up. Or turned upside down. Or just shaken enough to make things look a whole lot different.

"Hey." Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, much like Sam had in the cemetery, so many moons ago. "You okay?"

Mason nodded and looked up at his dad with those bright blue eyes that refused to fade even as he grew older. And grew so fast. "Yeah. I'm okay."

Dean sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his free hand. "I feel like I ended all of this on the wrong note. I didn't mean to make it so heavy, it's just—well, it should be heavy. Some things don't come in any other weight."

"No, I get it." But Mason still looked beaten down. More so than he'd ever had when the mention of his mother came up. Dean had always known the large hole Y/N had left in her absence couldn't be filled, not by Jody or Charlie or Sam or Cas or even Dean, no matter how hard all of them tried.

"Son," Dean said, and Mason looked up again. "I'm only telling you this because you should know. She loved you so much, and that makes it all the more harder. But I don't want you to take this to heart and think that you should avoid love at all costs just so you don't hurt anymore. I tried that, and it didn't work."

Mason nodded, his eyes even wider as Dean spoke. They so rarely talked like this, with so much openness and vulnerability.

"Talk about her," Dean said. "Look at pictures, ask me or your Uncle Sam for more stories about her. She can't be here, but you can still learn about her and love her. There's always going to be so much to lose in life, but if you're ever given the choice to fall in love or walk away, I hope you choose to let her get to you. I couldn't ever bear to see the same thing happen to you that it did to me, but I'd feel even more awful if you played it safe. Life can do terrible things, but it can do amazing things, too. And sometimes those things go together. But it's worth it. God, it's always worth it. And I'll never regret falling in love with her or having you or anything that happened to us. Because you were both the best things that ever happened to me."

Mason's eyes shined as he leaned into his dad and wrapped his arms around his neck. Dean squeezed him tight, felt their heartbeats pound in the same rhythm. The rising sun through Mason's windows illuminated the framed picture on the dresser, the one of Dean and Y/N and newborn Mason soon after they came home for the first time as a family of three.

Dean smiled gently. Pictures like that, moments like this, they all made life's terrible things a little easier to handle. And that was all he could ever ask for.

 **A/N:** This is the FINAL INSTALLMENT of _Terrible Things_. Thank you all so much for sticking it out through this emotional rollercoaster of a ride. I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are always much appreciated!


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